


Buried Truth

by silverfoxstole



Series: Stormy Waters [3]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-11-11
Updated: 2007-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Uncharted Territory.</p><p>September 1804 - the crew of the Hotspur venture into France...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Archived from hornblowerfic.com, on hiatus since 2007. One day I may take it up again, but not for in foreseeable future.

PART ONE

 

France, September 1804

 

The ceiling was cracked, the plaster flaking and yellowed. Like the rest of the room, it had seen no attention in years. Bush guessed that no one had used this house since the Revolution – what little he had seen of the exterior was decaying and in ruins, looking very much as though it had barely survived a devastating fire. The torn curtains that still hung at the boarded-up window were thick with dust, which caught in his throat as he tried to peer through the gaps between the wood to see where he was. The sunlight trickled through the narrow spaces, falling in thin lines across the filthy floor, but he could make out little of the world beyond this room; the room that had been his prison for the last two days.

It was hot, almost unbearably so. Bush had stood the heat for a few hours after his incarceration had begun – the taunts of the French bandits outside the door, though incomprehensible, had made him determined not to relinquish any of his authority – but eventually he had been forced to remove his uniform jacket and waistcoat, rolling his shirt sleeves to the elbow. It had done little to relieve the oppression – sweat trickled down his face and between his shoulder blades, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. The air was thick, heavy and dry. Providing him with water seemed to be low on the list of his captors’ priorities. His shouts and hammering on the locked door roused no reaction of any kind, and he had been forced to subside, his energy spent. There was nothing he could do but lie on the uncomfortable straw paliasse that had been reluctantly provided for him to sleep on and stare at that cracked ceiling, cursing his own stupidity.

If he had considered what he was doing, if he had made sure that the marines were backing him up, if he had kept his mind on the battle as he had always done before, he would not be in this mess. He and Styles had been an easy target for the French, separated from the coast and the ship.

Bush swore, loudly and with feeling. He’d been an idiot. What the hell must Hornblower think of him? He smacked a fist into the crumbling wall in frustration, but only succeeded in barking his knuckles, which made him curse again. How did he keep getting into these situations?

 

***

Two days earlier…

 

The relentless heat beating down on the parched ground was more exhausting than the fighting.

Breathing heavily, the dust dry in his throat and threatening to choke him, Bush dragged his sleeve across his forehead once more and lunged forwards with his sword. The blow was easily parried, and he was forced back onto the defensive by the French trooper who had been playing with him like this for what seemed like an eternity.

The blades met with a clash of steel, guards scraping together as they momentarily locked and then parted for the umpteenth time. The Frog showed no sign of weakening, teeth bared in a savage smile – Bush was slowing down, the heat sapping the strength from muscles that were still unused to such exercise with every passing moment. He knew he would not be able to keep this up for much longer.

With a shout the Frenchman stabbed down with his sword – Bush blocked, parried and thrust almost without thinking, his body moving automatically as though being controlled from far away. His head was swimming, blood running down his face from a gash on his forehead, mixing with the sweat that dripped into his eyes. Another scar to add to the collection, he thought absently. He seemed to be gaining more than his fair share of late. Why wouldn’t the bloody Frog just lie down and die?

As though in a dream, Bush blocked a savage blow aimed at his head. It was only reflex and adrenalin that was keeping him going now. Moving too quickly, he overbalanced, and before he had realised what was happening the ground rushed up to meet him and he was awkwardly hitting the iron mud, one leg caught beneath him. Something tore in his ankle and he failed to hold back the yell of pain that rose within him. He tried to roll over, fire enveloping his left foot and calf, but the pain was the least of his worries – taking the chance to press home his advantage, the Frenchman loomed over him, a devilish grin on his filthy face. The sword arced downwards – twisting, Bush desperately jabbed upwards with his own blade. Almost blinded by the blood in his eyes and the rising, choking dust, he braced himself for the fatal blow…

…which never came. The Frenchman screamed. Bush tried to see what was happening – a dark shape above him shuddered, then toppled. He had no time to move as the body of the trooper crashed down, his sword narrowly missing Bush’s head as it fell from lifeless fingers. The corpse landed heavily across his chest, the Frenchman’s astonished eyes staring up at him, the hilt of Bush’s sword protruding from between his ribs. With an effort, Bush rolled the dead man to one side and lay there, eyes screwed shut against the brilliant sunlight, trying to regain his breath.

His bones felt like lead, the pain in his lower leg excruciating. He tentatively tried to move it and bit back the cry that welled in his throat. Broken, then, or at the very least severely sprained. He would have to get it treated or the injury would never mend. The prospect of life as a cripple was one that he was not willing to entertain for a moment. He would have to get up, and find the rest of the Hotspurs – his fight with the French soldier had taken him away from the centre of the battlefield.

But it was hot, and he was so tired…it was all he could do to open his eyes let alone raise his head.

Against the distant sound of continued fighting and the drone of crickets in the dry grass, Bush drifted off, barely noticing as the world receded and he sank into blessed oblivion.

 

***

“Sir! There’re more of them, sir!”

Hornblower looked to where Orrock was pointing and swore under his breath. They had already lost half the marines, holed up like this within the outbuildings of the farm, but beyond the courtyard, within the line of trees, blue uniforms could be seen approaching. They had run out of options – there was only one course of action left open to him.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly, “Fall back to the boats. Matthews!”

The bos’n popped up as if from nowhere, knuckling his forehead. “Sir!”

“Where’s that gunpowder? We’ll destroy the bridge as we retreat.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sir,” Orrock was there, looking worried, face scratched and dusty. “There’s no sign of Mr Bush, sir.”

Styles was at his shoulder, looking a grisly sight covered in gore. He wiped a big hand across his face. “He got cut off durin’ the fightin’, sir. Over there.” He nodded towards the courtyard.

Hornblower did not want to dwell on what that might mean. They had to move, and quickly. Bush would understand that. “Styles, go and find him,” Hornblower said, “Follow us back to the ship as fast as you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Remember, once the bridge is destroyed you won’t be to get back.”

Styles nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said, and vanished between the sandy-coloured buildings.

Hornblower watched him for a moment, then turned and waved his sword above his head. “Hotspurs!” he shouted, “To me!”

 

***

When Styles had last seen Bush he had been battling a French trooper nearly twice his size. The lieutenant was a fierce fighter, but it seemed that the heat and the injuries from which he had only recently recovered were taking it out of him. Styles had wanted to go to his aid, but the sheer weight of numbers on the enemy side and the diminishing Hotspur ranks had prevented him. As he cautiously crossed the parched courtyard he fervently hoped that he would not find Bush amongst the dead.

There were plenty of them, scattered around between the farm buildings, uniforms of sky blue and red but no navy to be seen. In the heat the flies were beginning to descend, clustering around the corpses and crawling over gaping wounds. Although he had seen it many times, the sight still turned Styles’s stomach.

He rounded the well-house, and nearly stumbled over a body lying on the ground by the steps, a body in a dark blue uniform, face caked with blood and dirt. Styles crouched down beside Bush – the lieutenant wasn’t moving, which couldn’t be good. Memories of finding Bush bleeding his life out on the deck of Renown rose unbidden - he tried to see where Bush was wounded, but could make out no obvious injuries. A couple of feet away lay the corpse of the massive French trooper – the man looked as though death had come as a complete shock to him, sightless eyes staring upwards in almost comical surprise.

Styles bent over his lieutenant. “Mr Bush? Mr Bush, can you hear me, sir?”

Relief flooded through him when Bush groaned, moving his head. For some anxious moments he had though the man might be dead, but his eyelids were fluttering, trying to break the crust of blood that had dried over them. After a moment they opened fully – Bush stared up at him uncomprehendingly for several seconds before he rasped out, “Styles, is that you?”

“Aye, sir.” Styles glanced over his shoulder, expecting the French troopers to appear from behind the well-house. “Can you stand, sir? We need to get back to the ship.”

Bush nodded tersely, and after a couple of attempts managed to lever himself into a sitting position unaided. When it came to getting to getting to his feet, he seemed to be having some difficulty, but waved away Styles’s assistance, getting first to his knees and then pulling himself upright by leaning on the well-house steps. As he straightened his face creased in pain, a barely restrained expletive escaping his lips.

“Are you all right, sir?” Styles asked, concerned.

“I’m fine.” Bush made a valiant attempt to recover his composure, but he wasn’t fooling Styles one bit. It might not be obvious, but Bush was clearly wounded in some way. He looked around, vaguely, as though he had lost something. Styles spotted the sword hilt sticking out from the chest of the dead Frenchman – reaching over he pulled it free, the blade catching on the corpse’s ribs, and gave it a cursory wipe before handing it to Bush. The lieutenant nodded in thanks and slid the sword back into its scabbard. “Where is the captain?” he asked.

“Headin’ back to the boats, sir. ‘E sent me to find you – there’re more Frogs on the way.”

“In that case we’ve no time to lose. Come on.” Face twisted in a grimace he couldn’t quite hide, Bush turned and set off across the courtyard at a painfully slow limp. Styles followed, but he knew that if they were to travel at this speed the French would catch them sooner rather than later. He also knew that Bush was a proud and stubborn man, and would never ask for help even if he needed it.

With a sigh, Styles drew his cutlass, checked his pistol, and set about watching his officer’s back.

 

***

 

Hornblower looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Frustrated, he shoved the timepiece back into his pocket. Staring at the hands would not make time pass any faster or slower. He glanced up once more at the road – there was still no sign of Bush or Styles. He glanced at Matthews, but the bos’n shook his head. Muttering an expletive that he realised he must have picked up from Bush, Hornblower crossed the path to where the men waited, the fuses set and the gunpowder placed at the base of the bridge. The last time he had had to do something like this, at Muzillac, seemed a lifetime ago. They had waited too long already – he couldn’t afford to give Bush any more time. He knew that Bush would understand, but that did not make it any easier to give the necessary order.

Matthews had sensed his indecision. He left the hands and came across to Hornblower. “Sir?” he prompted gently. “Fuses all set, sir.”

Hornblower looked up. It was as difficult for Matthews to abandon their comrades, he knew. But they were running out of time.

He nodded. “Very well, Matthews. Tell the men to fall back to a safe distance and light the fuses.”

 

***

The men had retreated.

Matthews struck a light carefully, and touched the flame to the fuse. He muttered a quick prayer, then turned and ran hell for leather down the path.

Behind him, with a deafening boom, the barrels of gunpowder went up.

 

***

The explosion could be heard for miles around.

Bush and Styles, halfway down the winding lane which led back to the coast road, and ultimately the Hotspur, were brought up short as the sound rent the air, sending birds screeching into the sky. The resulting tremor almost knocked them to the ground. Styles was first to recover his wits, coming over to help Bush up.

“Bloody ‘ell, sir, what was that?”

“The captain, Styles,” Bush replied grimly, knowing exactly what it was. Orders were orders. “He’s destroyed the bridge.”

“You know what that means, sir.”

“Yes. It means that we’re trapped on this side of the river with the French at our heels.” Bush felt an unusual surge of panic inside him. It was one thing to be stranded here with Hornblower, but to be trapped in France with Styles, neither of them speaking the language and an easy target for the Boney’s army…

Styles glanced up and down the lane. “What do we do now, sir?”

Bush considered. They had a choice: either returning to the farm and taking their chances with the approaching soldiers, or continuing to the bridge and trying to get across the water. As both of them would surely drown in such a strong current, there was only one option. “We head back the way we came,” he said eventually. “There must be other bridges. We’ll keep walking until we find one.”

“And the Frogs, sir?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, too.”

 

***

 

It was not a comfortable situation by any means. Their walk took them back past the farm – it was clear that the French were still there, massing between the old buildings. Bush and Styles spent over two hours crouching out of sight in the bushes beside the road, not daring to move on in case they were spotted.

At last it seemed that the soldiers had lost interest in pursuing their enemy, after a lone rider returned to the farm at speed, shouting at the top of his voice. Bush did not understand a word, but he assumed it meant that the wrecked bridge had been discovered. Within minutes, foot soldiers and mounted officers passed their hiding place, heading in the direction of the bridge. After waiting another tense quarter of an hour, the two men ventured out into the lane, and continued their trek.

 

***

The lane was too open, too exposed.

Styles kept glancing around him, continually on the alert in case the French troops should be tailing them. It would be easy to pick them off, Bush thought, out in the open like this. Just a couple of snipers would be all it needed. So far there had been no sign of the enemy since they left the farm, but he refused to be complacent – he couldn’t believe, even with the bridge destroyed, that they would give up that easily.

He started as a noise, in the distance but getting steadily closer, began to work its way into his consciousness. From the way that he turned, finger tightening on the trigger of his pistol, Styles had heard it too. “Sir…” he said, holding up a hand in warning.

Bush glanced over his shoulder, hand instinctively reaching for his sword. A cloud of dust on the horizon told him immediately that they had little chance of escape, in the middle of open ground, nothing but fields to either side. There would certainly be no question of outrunning any pursuers, even if he had been able to move quickly. Damn this leg! “Come on,” he told Styles with some of his usual authority, and set off at a stumbling run. It hurt like hell, but it was the best he could manage. After a few steps, however, his ankle suddenly gave out beneath him and he fell, pitching forwards towards the dry earth, the hoof beats echoing in his ears.

A grip on his arm stopped him from hitting the ground, but before he could feel grateful for that mercy, he found himself being lifted and almost thrown to the edge of the lane, through the brambles and tall grass, the horses thundering past at speed and what seemed like inches away. By the time he had rolled to a halt and somehow managed to struggle upright again, the mysterious riders had gone, hooves receding into the distance once more. Styles crouched near a gap in the hedge, peering outwards, pistol in hand.

Bush sat up. “Styles?” he gasped.

“It’s all right, sir, they’ve gone.” The big man abandoned his post to crouch at Bush’s side, looking at him in concern. Bush knew he must look a wreck – he certainly felt like one. His ankle was throbbing unbearably. “Do you want to rest, sir?”

Bush would have liked nothing more, but knew they had to keep moving. He shook his head, then winced as pain needled through his leg. “We have to go on.”

“You can’t walk on that leg, sir. You’ll ‘ave to let me carry you.”

Bush shook his head again. Loath as he was to admit it, they were never going to get anywhere fast with him in this state. And he was certainly not going to let Styles carry him. He had his pride, if nothing else. “No. I’ll slow you down,” he said, and added reluctantly, “You should go on without me. Get back to the ship, tell the captain what happened.”

Styles stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that’s crazy! I can’t leave you ‘ere!”

“That’s an order, Styles,” Bush told him sharply, mind now made up. At least if Styles made for the coast one of them might get back to Hotspur in one piece.

Styles’s battered face set in a determined expression. “No, sir.”

“What?” Bush blinked in surprise. “Styles, are you disobeying my orders?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“That’s mutiny, Styles.”

The big man nodded. “I know, sir.”

It was quite obvious from the determination written on his battered face that Styles had no intention of leaving him. Bush was torn, not quite sure whether to be furious at the man’s disobedience or grateful to him for his loyalty. God knew, his treatment of Styles sometime scarcely warranted it. He was reluctant to show weakness before the big man, but it seemed he had little choice. And deep down he was thankful for Styles’s concern. He nodded. “Very well. Help me up.”

By the time he was back on his feet all was quiet in the lane once more, the riders far into the distance. Bush allowed Styles to sling an arm around his waist and take most of his weight. After the excruciating pain of putting pressure on his ankle it was a relief.

“Which way, sir?” Styles asked.

“The same way as before, Styles,” Bush told him. “If we follow the river we have to reach another bridge eventually.”

They started walking.

 

***

The day wore on, the heat relentless.

Styles did his best to ignore the thirst, his parched throat, the sweat running in a constant stream between his shoulder blades. Bush was visibly wilting, managing to walk after a fashion, but determined not to let Styles take his entire weight all the time. It was plain he would not be able to go much further.

They had lost sight of the river some time ago. There was a tall hedge on one side of the lane – checking that no one was in sight, Styles lowered Bush to the ground behind the hedge. “You just sit tight there, sir – I’ll take a look around.”

Bush nodded weakly. Though he was trying not to show it, the injury to his leg was causing him no little pain. He was looking pale beneath the dust and blood that streaked his face. Even Styles knew that he needed water, and medical attention, but it was a vain hope to think that they might find either given their current situation. With one last anxious glance at Bush, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the dry leaves of the hedge, Styles made his way cautiously back to the road.

It was quiet; the only sounds the twittering of birds in the trees and the drone of insects. In such countryside it was easy to forget that France was a country ravaged by revolution and a decade of war. It was impossible to tell now in which direction lay the sea, but Styles knew that however far away it was it would be too far for Bush to walk with a damaged ankle. It seemed that their only hope might be to find someone willing to help two British sailors, but given their combined ignorance of French, and the presence of the army in the area, the chances of that were so slim as to be practically non-existent.

Satisfied that there was no one nearby who might be a threat to them, Styles turned back the way he had come. Before he had gone twenty paces, however, he knew instinctively that something was wrong.

Another sound had joined the birdsong: voices, pitched low but still audible. Dropping to a crouch, he crept forwards, towards a gap in the hedge. Peering through it, he could see the spot where he had left Bush – the lieutenant had not moved, but from the way that his head had slumped forwards onto his chest it was clear that he was either asleep or unconscious. That in itself was a concern, but not as much as the men who had gathered around him, and were still talking in those low voices. They wore plain, unremarkable clothes rather than uniforms, but the array of weapons about their persons made it quite obvious that they were unlikely to want to give assistance of any kind.

As Styles watched, one of them took hold of Bush’s chin, lifting his head and looking carefully at his face. Bush did not react, either overcome by the pain or the heat. The man said something urgently to one of his colleagues, who in turn gestured to Bush’s uniform.

There was little Styles could do against four armed men, with only one pistol and a knife to defend himself. Getting himself killed would not help Bush. He was trying to decide upon the best course of action when a rustle in the grass behind him caught his attention. He turned, and as he belatedly realised that there must have been more members of the group than he thought, something smashed across the back of his skull and everything went black.

 

***

 

Bush jumped as behind him a key scraped in the lock, the first movement outside the room in hours. Instinctively, Bush climbed to his feet, gritting his teeth as he put weight on his injured ankle. The door opened, revealing the tall, scarred man he had assumed was the leader of the bandit forces. The Frenchman spoke little English, and Bush found it difficult to make himself understood. He had repeatedly demanded to know where he was and what they wanted with him, but to no avail. All he received for his pains was a torrent of incomprehensible French.

“Monsieur - ” That was the only word Bush understood. He stood still, as if to attention, until the man had finished speaking. Whatever was going to happen, he would take it as he did every other challenge in his life – head on and with as much courage as he could muster.

The Frenchman stepped aside, to reveal another figure behind him in the doorway. Bush stiffened, expecting the worst, but as the newcomer ducked inside and removed his hat he found himself staring, surprise and relief battling for the emotional upper hand. He opened his mouth, but the figure almost imperceptibly shook his head. He turned to the bandit and rattled off yet more unintelligible French. The man nodded and withdrew, slamming the door behind him.

Bush limped quickly forwards as soon as the door was closed. “Archie, what the bloody hell is going on here?” he demanded.

“Shh, William, keep your voice down!” Archie Kennedy’s fallen-angelic face was deadly serious.

“Who are those people?” Bush lowered his voice but he was not going to be fobbed off so easily. “And where the hell is Styles?”

“He’s fine – he has a sore head, but he’ll get over it. These men are partisans, William, and they have a serious agenda. You’re important to them, but it won’t stop them from slitting your throat if necessary, so I suggest you listen to me and cooperate,” said Kennedy, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door.

Bush looked at the door, too. “Important to them?” he repeated. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”

Kennedy raised his eyebrows. “Because they need your help.”

 

TBC


	2. Part Two

PART TWO

 

Bush stared at Kennedy in astonishment.

“They…*what* did you say?” he said, not quite daring to believe his own ears, the comment had been so incredible.

“They need your help,” Kennedy repeated. “It’s not for me to explain why, but the colonel – thanks to some recommendation from myself, I might add – believes you can be of assistance. But,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door, “if you make any more of a commotion he might change his mind.”

Bush raised an eyebrow. “I’m kept here with less consideration than one would give a dog and expected to take it lying down, am I?”

“You are a prisoner here,” Kennedy said simply, “You have no right to demand anything. If he thinks that your presence has compromised our mission, the colonel will most probably have you shot.”

“Well, that’s most comforting to know, thank you.”

Archie crossed the room and sat down on the dusty windowsill, heedless of his coat. He was looking a little more worn than when Bush had last seen him, his blond hair cut short as was becoming the fashionable style. “Don’t fly up into the boughs, William. I’m here to help you.” He looked closely at Bush, eyes narrowed, no doubt taking in his dishevelled state. “Styles told me that you were wounded.”

“Styles is wrong. It’s nothing,” Bush said firmly. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was fussing. He felt suddenly awkward standing by the door and, after a moment’s consideration, sat down on the palliasse with as little effort as he could manage, determinedly schooling his features as best he could not to betray any pain. He wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded, but thankfully Kennedy said nothing further on the subject. Directing his best penetrating stare at his friend, he asked, “What are you doing here? Spying for Pellew again?”

“I am liaising with the colonel on Pellew’s behalf, yes. I admit to being surprised to find you here.”

“We were attacked by French troops. I became cut off during the fighting.”

Kennedy frowned. “Horatio didn’t return for you?”

“He had his orders. Someone betrayed us – there was little he could do but fall back to the ship. Orders are orders,” said Bush. He did not blame Hornblower for acting as he had, though were he placed in the same situation he wondered whether he would have been able to abandon his friend so easily. Hornblower had done his duty, no one could argue with that. This was war, and casualties were inevitable. Things were a little different, however, Bush reflected, when one of the casualties happened to be you. “He sent Styles to find me. Reinforcements were massing, and we didn’t make it back to the coast road in time.”

The change was only fractional, but Kennedy’s face paled. “Then the mission failed. The Anstruthers? Did they – did the French - ”

It took Bush a moment to register what his friend had said. “You knew about our mission?” There was no other way that Kennedy could know the identity of the family the Hotspurs had been sent in to rescue. Robert Anstruther was a merchant who had travelled to France with his family during the Peace of Amiens, as many had done, taking the opportunity while the fighting had ceased to visit Paris and gawp at the changes to that once fine city. But it had been the worst possible timing – hostilities had reignited during their trip, stranding them across the Channel. From the scant information Hornblower had deigned to share with Bush, he had gathered that the family had been taken prisoner, and their unscrupulous captor made every attempt to ransom them to the highest bidder. The situation had come to Pellew’s attention, and he had duly sent in Hornblower and the Hotspur. It had been a gamble, but one that had not succeeded.

“Who do you think it was that told Pellew of the Anstruthers’ plight?” Kennedy straightened, and began pacing the floor. “This is very bad. You were ambushed?”

Bush nodded. “Troops came from all sides. We suffered huge casualties. Horatio had to leave when he did – there was no other option.”

“And the family?”

“There was no indication that they had ever been there. It was a trap – someone told the French that we were coming.”

Kennedy’s expression was grim. It was one that never sat well with his open, cheerful countenance. “I will have to tell the colonel.” He turned towards the door, but Bush reached out, catching hold of his sleeve.

“You can’t leave me to rot in here!”

Almost on cue, the door opened, one of the partisan soldiers appearing on the threshold. The man looked as though he had been living rough for months (which, Bush reasoned, he probably had), his hair long and matted, and several weeks’ worth of beard obscuring his face. He was a fearsome prospect, bristling with guns, knives and various other items of weaponry Bush couldn’t quite identify. He said something to Kennedy in French, his voice rough and hoarse. Kennedy nodded, and turned back to Bush.

“I’m needed. I’m sorry, William, I can’t release you without the colonel’s permission. My presence here is tolerated, not welcomed.”

Bush was not going to be left behind. “Let me speak to this damned colonel of yours.”

Their eyes met – Kennedy must have seen the determination in Bush’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I can’t.”

“You can’t do this to me, Archie. If you won’t take me to him, damn it, I’ll go by myself!” With a supreme effort, Bush managed to stand, putting a hand against the wall to support himself. Kennedy just watched him, staying the man at the door with a glance. Bush took a couple of steps and felt reasonably confident but, a pace from the door, his ankle folded under him and he pitched forwards. Fortunately, Kennedy caught him swiftly before he could land on the floor in an undignified heap.

Lowering him back down onto the palliasse, Archie asked, “What’s the matter with your leg?”

Bush shook his head, trying to regain his breath. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment. Stop being so bloody stubborn and tell me what’s wrong.”

Such was the surprising authority in Kennedy’s voice that Bush found himself answering almost before he realised. “My ankle,” he said, “Twisted, I think.”

The brute at the door said something sharply, to which Kennedy replied with a few equally curt words. He crouched down beside Bush. “Let me see.”

“Archie, it’s really - ”

Without another word, and ignoring his protests, Kennedy started to pull off Bush’s boot. It was no small task, and caused Bush several curses and sharp intakes of breath before the job was done. Even before his stocking followed the boot, Bush could see with some alarm that his ankle appeared to have swollen to at least twice the size it should be. Once the stocking was removed it was clear why it hurt so bloody much: the flesh was mottled black and purple with some blue thrown in for good measure, the bruising stretching down across his foot and part way up his calf as well. Archie took hold of Bush’s toes and slowly tilted his foot back, bending the ankle just slightly. The effect on Bush was instant and considerable – sweat started once more on his already damp forehead, and several expletives passed his lips, culminating in a strained, “Jesus Christ, Archie - !”

Kennedy laid his foot back down on the mattress. “You were a madman to walk like that,” he remarked. “You’ve made it ten times worse.”

Bush almost unconsciously moved his foot as far away from his friend as possible. “A party of French soldiers at your back concentrates the mind wonderfully,” he replied tetchily.

“You’ll need that attended to.”

Bush’s left eyebrow flicked upwards. “Before or after the colonel decides to shoot me?”

Kennedy almost smiled at that. “He’ll not shoot you out of turn. The men may be a loutish rabble, but the colonel is a fair man. If you co-operate - ”

“If I co-operate I live, yes? I worked that out for myself,” said Bush, nettled. He could not stand being spoken to like a child, especially by Kennedy.

Now Archie did smile. “Of course, William. But I wouldn’t advise antagonising the colonel. Your…behaviour yesterday did grate rather on his nerves.”

Bush glared. “Do apologise to him on my behalf,” he snapped. “Perhaps he should think about providing his prisoners with water more often if he intends to lock them up in a bloody bake house!”

Kennedy stood up. “I’ll mention it to him. And I’ll fetch someone to strap up that ankle.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a surgeon amongst that ramshackle army?” If there were, Bush could not honestly feel confident in any such man’s ability.

“Of course. We all have to do our bit, William. War makes for strange bedfellows,” said Kennedy with a mischievous smile, heading for the door.

“Archie!” Bush half started up from the mattress after him, but he was gone, the door banging shut behind him and the key grating in the lock, leaving Bush alone with a hundred questions and only the stirring dust for company.

 

***

 

The heat in the little room increased as the day wore on.

Bush guessed that the sun was now at its highest, beating down almost directly on the boarded up windows. He leaned back against the wall, dragging a sleeve across his dripping forehead. Even the brig of the Renown in the sweltering climate of the West Indies had not been this unbearable. The heat was sapping what strength he had left - every movement was taking a supreme effort. If he didn’t get some water soon he knew he was going to pass out – his vision was blurring, lights dancing before his eyes.

He vaguely heard the door open behind him – blearily he turned his head to see a surly-looking individual enter bearing a tray. The man set the tray down on the flagstones with a clatter and departed without a word.

An investigation revealed the tray’s contents to be a plate bearing a hunk of rough bread and a leather flask of water, both more welcome to Bush at that moment than the fare at the grandest admiralty banquet. He tore at the bread hungrily, conscious of how long it had been since his last meal – it was dry and stale, but he barely noticed. The water felt to his parched throat like nectar, and he gulped it down, finally having to force himself to slow and take sips for fear of overloading his system after such a long dry spell. He was also mindful of the need to leave some for later – the flask was compact, and his slid it into the pocket of his jacket where it nestled comfortably.

Feeling a little more like himself, he leaned against the wall once more and closed his eyes, trying to make some sense of his situation. He assumed that he had Kennedy to thank for the food and water – he doubted that his captors would suddenly have a change of heart after his treatment over the last two days.

While it had not been so much of a surprise as perhaps it might have been to see Archie here, given the nature of his work for Pellew, it was still disconcerting to find him in league with such a villainous rabble as the partisans appeared to be. Nevertheless, a friendly face in such circumstances was welcome, and something for which Bush, stranded in an enemy country with no knowledge of its language, was grateful. At the very least it might mean that he would not simply be shot without question. But what the hell had Archie meant by ‘They need your help?’ He had seemed reluctant to elaborate on the statement.

Bush couldn’t imagine what help he could give to a band of desperados, even if they were fighting against Bonaparte. Only information; and that would have to be dragged out of him by force. He knew little enough anyway, barely anything that might be useful to them. So if it was not information, what the hell could it be? He was a sailor: there his expertise began and ended. Yes, he could forge horseshoes and the like, taught a long time ago by his uncle, but he doubted that he would have been taken prisoner because the colonel needed a blacksmith.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off the headache that was threatening behind his eyes, and growled in annoyance. Why could he never work these things out?

 

***

 

Time passed slowly, and there was no sign of Kennedy returning.

Bush dozed in the heat, as much as the pain needling through his foot would allow. Flies droned against the boards across the window.

At length, the door opened once more to admit a tall, spare man in his forties, tidily dressed with hair cropped close to his scalp and the fingers of a surgeon. He did not speak, simply kneeling beside Bush’s mattress and opening the battered leather bag he carried.

Bush tried to ask the man questions, but either he spoke no English or had been ordered not to answer for he made no reply, merely bound up Bush’s ankle with brisk efficiency before departing as swiftly as he had come.

After that, Bush was left alone once more, but his thoughts became more rather than less muddled in his attempts to work out what on earth was going on.

By the time the door opened for the final time it was well into the evening, and he was lying full-length on the palliasse, using his rolled-up jacket as a pillow, trying to sleep. The door crashing into the wall as it was flung open jerked him awake.

This time the intruder was one of the rabble who had jeered at him on his arrival, darkly-tanned and heavily-bearded, an obviously-loaded musket held in the crook of his arm. The man said something in a harsh, guttural voice, the only word of which Bush understood was ‘colonel’. A jerk of the head towards the open door told him that evidently the colonel had at last decided that he wished to speak with him.

Awkwardly he levered himself up from the mattress, making every effort not to put weight on his damaged ankle. He tried to take a step and it almost folded once more, forcing him to grab desperately for the door frame.

“I cannot walk without help,” he told the Frenchman, gesturing to his bandaged foot. His boot would not go back on over the swelling, much to his annoyance.

The man looked at it without interest and repeated his earlier order.

“If the colonel wishes to speak with me he will have to come here,” Bush said, loudly, using the tone he reserved for particularly slow midshipmen. “I cannot go to him. Do you understand?”

It was plain that the man did not, as he continued to look blankly at Bush before repeating his order for the second time. Since neither of them understood the other the confrontation was something of a stalemate. Bush marshalled his most contemptuous gaze, but it had little effect.

The Frenchman, clearly intent on carrying out his instructions, took two steps across the room and grasped Bush by the arm. Bush shook him off with an indignant snarl. “Take your hands off me, you dog!”

The man understood the sentiment, if not the words – unfortunately this just made him grab hold of Bush even more roughly, digging in his fingers. Bush tried to brush him off once more but this time without success. He was going to tell the bandit exactly what he thought of him, despite the language barrier, when Kennedy appeared in the doorway.

He snapped a couple of words at the man in French, and Bush was grudgingly released. As Kennedy entered the room the unpleasant individual exited, the muzzle of his musket lifted just enough to signify his intent should Bush prove himself to be a threat.

“Sorry,” said Kennedy, “Some of them are rather…over-eager.”

“Whose bloody side are they on?” Bush demanded, rubbing at his bruised arm. He leaned over to pick up his jacket and nearly overbalanced, catching himself just in time.

“Their own. They wish to be rid of Bonaparte, but not all are keen on the return of the Bourbons. And of course, they are uncomfortable with the idea of accepting help from the British. Here, take this – it might be some help.”

Bush glanced up to see Kennedy offering what appeared to be a walking stick. It had once been very fine, made of heavy, carved wood, though it was missing the mountings from its handle. His first gut reaction was to refuse, always reluctant to show weakness and admit that he needed help, but rationally he knew he would get nowhere without it and accepted the stick grudgingly.

“Come on,” said Kennedy when Bush had shrugged himself into his jacket and finished trying with little success to make himself look presentable, “The colonel awaits.”

I bet he does, Bush thought as he was led out of his prison into the remains of the corridor. From its appearance, he guessed that this was one of the private areas of the house, one that had been rarely seen by visitors. Even after so long and such damage, it retained its functional air. Rubble was strewn all over, the flagstones loose and broken, weeds clogging the gaps where mortar would once have held. Above them the roof was still partially intact, giving a glimpse through its open spaces of what was left of the rooms above. A virulent form of creeper swathed the walls, infiltrating any gap it was able to find.

As he followed Kennedy through the shell of the building, it became clear to Bush that his earlier assessment had been correct – this had once been a property of some wealth and consequence. That much was obvious even accounting for the fact that the majority of the interior décor had been looted over the years. Remnants of silk paper clung to the walls as they progressed through the passages, faded in places where paintings and mirrors would once have hung.

He was grateful for the walking stick, even though Kennedy kept the pace slow to accommodate him. Eventually they came to a halt outside a stout oak door, scratches and gouges across its substantial panels. Its lock and handle were missing, but it still looked capable of withstanding a considerable attack. Kennedy knocked, and a voice from within called out, “Entrez!”

Bush frowned – the voice sounded vaguely familiar. He was still trying to place it when Kennedy opened the door.

“Mr Bush, colonel,” he said in English, standing aside to let Bush enter.

The room was more intact than any other he had seen on his journey through the house, retaining some of its former opulence, and even some of its once-brilliant carpet. Before the window a makeshift desk had been set up, and behind this sat a figure in a smart green coat, his dark hair cropped in the new fashion, his head angled away to look out of the stained and broken window.

“Ah, Monsieur Bush,” he drawled, in heavily-accented English, “I am delighted to see you again. Welcome to France.”

Bush felt his mouth fall open in amazement as the man turned in his chair and smiled at him, mocking brown eyes looking him up and down. He might have a scar or two on his arrogant tanned face, and have his empty right coat sleeve pinned across his chest, but Bush would have known him anywhere.

It was Andre Côtard.

 

TBC


	3. Part Three

PART THREE

 

“This is bad, Hornblower. This is very bad.”

Hornblower stood to attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as Admiral Pellew paced the great stern cabin of the Tonnant. “Yes, sir.”

Pellew’s head came up, and he fixed Hornblower with gimlet eyes. “Indeed, sir! The operation was a disaster!”

“With respect, sir,” Hornblower began, bracing himself for the admiral’s wrath, “the plan would have succeeded as it stood had our intelligence been correct.”

“Oh, yes?” There was a trace of interest now in Pellew’s thunderous expression. He turned, pacing in the opposite direction, hands clasped behind his back. “And why would that be?”

“French troopers were waiting for us at the farm, sir. We were outnumbered – we had no choice but to retreat. I lost half my men as it was. Remaining would have cost many more lives.”

“So I understand. So you fell back to the ship, destroying the bridge and leaving your first lieutenant behind in the process.”

“Indeed, sir.” There was an uncomfortable pause before Hornblower felt compelled to add, “I did return to look for Mr Bush once I was certain the troops had left the area, but there was no sign and we could obviously not cross the river with the bridge in ruins. I can only assume that he has been taken prisoner or…”

Pellew nodded. “Yes. That is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped. I only hope that I don’t have Mr Etheridge of the diplomatic service breathing down my neck over the loss of the Anstruthers.”

There was another pause. After some consideration, Hornblower decided to broach the concerns that had been on his mind ever since the ambush at the farm. “Sir, if I may say, there was no outward sign that we were able to find of the family ever having been held there.”

“None whatsoever?” Pellew had stopped pacing now, and was standing behind his desk, silhouetted against the stern window.

“None, sir. The farm had not been inhabited for some time. It appears that our information was either out of date or false, sir.”

The admiral’s eyes became hard once more. “I’ll have you know, Hornblower, that the information came from a highly reliable source!”

Hornblower had no doubt that it did – Archie Kennedy. However, he decided not to say so. “I have no doubt of that, sir. But if that is the case then that person has been either misled, or someone has betrayed us. The French knew we were coming – they lay in wait for us, sir, and they had reinforcements.”

“Yes.” Pellew sat down at his desk, throwing out his gold-laced coat tails. “That very pertinently brings us to the other reason I wished to see you. There are some wild rumours circulating in naval circles, even though the mission was supposed to be a secret.”

“The men have been talking, sir.” Hornblower inwardly groaned. God damn all seamen with loose tongues…

“They have indeed. I am afraid that Mr Bush’s disappearance, coupled with his associations of late - ”

“By that do you mean Mr Bush’s engagement to Miss Maitland, sir?”

“I do. In certain circles there is a suspicion that Mr Bush may have been the one to betray the plans to the enemy, with Miss Maitland’s assistance,” Pellew said bluntly.

Hornblower could barely believe what he was hearing. He fought to keep his mouth from falling open in shock. “Sir, Mr Bush is not a traitor! And neither is Miss Maitland – her family have been persecuted by the new regime in France!”

“I am aware of that, and I believe the allegations no more than you, Hornblower,” the admiral snapped. “I have squashed the rumours as far as I can, but men will talk, and as Mr Bush is not here to defend himself - ”

“Mr Bush may have been wounded, sir. I fully believe that his failure to return to the ship was through no fault of his own.”

“Hmm.” Was it Hornblower’s imagination, or did Pellew not sound entirely convinced? “Mr Bush has been going missing rather regularly of late, has he not?”

“Unfortunate circumstances, sir. Mr Bush is the most loyal and reliable officer with whom it has been my pleasure to serve,” Hornblower said firmly. “He would not betray his country, of that I am certain. Besides, sir, he cannot speak French – he would be little use to Bonaparte.”

“That is as may be. But unless Mr Bush makes another miraculous return, the stories will continue to spread.” Pellew leaned his head on one hand, face creased in furious thought. “I suggest that you speak with Miss Maitland.”

“I believe that, barring one letter, Mr Bush has had no contact with her since we sailed, sir.”

“You will have to inform her of her fiancé’s disappearance. You may as well find out if she knows anything that can assist us. And do so quickly, Mr Hornblower – I want the Hotspur back at sea as soon as possible.”

Hornblower privately did not think that speaking with Anna would solve anything. She was no more a traitor than Bush, but with the Admiralty and the diplomatic service hounding him Pellew would have to be seen to be doing something. He saluted, resigned. “Aye, aye, sir.”

 

***

 

“Oh, my God,” said Bush.

Cotard smiled. “Not quite. Merely my ‘umble self,” he said with a little bow.

Kennedy looked between them, surprised. “You know each other?”

“I ‘ave ‘ad the pleasure of serving aboard the ‘Otspur with Messieurs ‘Ornblower and Bush,” said Cotard cheerfully. “I trust the capitane is well?”

“Well enough, when last I saw him,” Bush replied.

“Oui. Monsieur Devereaux has told me about the ambush.” Cotard held out his remaining hand. “Please, lieutenant, sit down. May I offer you a drink?”

“Thank you.” Bush sat hesitantly. It had been some time since he had last seen Cotard, then a major in the army seconded to the Hotspur. They had not got off on the right foot – Cotard, either unaware of Bush’s rank or choosing to ignore it, had done his best to tease, annoy and slight Bush whenever he found the opportunity. In the end, they had come to an uneasy truce, but Bush had always found the Frenchman to be far too arch and knowing for his liking. He had never felt comfortable with such men, preferring those who spoke plainly – he at least knew where he was with them. With Cotard he could never be sure. The man always seemed to be laughing at him.

The colonel was dextrously pouring wine into a tankard, which he pushed across the desk to Bush. Noticing that Bush had been watching him with interest, he pulled a rueful face. “A souvenir from our encounter with Monsieur Wolfe,” he said. “The promotion was ‘ardly a fair exchange. I ‘eard you shot ‘im. Is that true?”

Bush nodded.

“Bon. I ‘ope ‘e is rotting. I must apologise for your accommodation, Bush,” Cotard went on, pronouncing it, as always, as ‘Boosh’. Bush had been convinced that this was calculated purely to annoy him. It worked admirably.

“Your men are in need of discipline,” he said. “Prisoner or no, I would not keep an animal in the conditions I have had to endure.”

“William,” Kennedy said in a warning tone, but Cotard laughed.

“I ‘ave ‘eard it said that you English treat your dogs better than your servants. But still, I apologise. My men ‘ave no manners, it is true. Your accommodation was as much for your own safety as for our security, ‘owever. ‘Aving you ‘ere is a risk to us all.”

“The army are aware of the presence of an English officer in the area,” Kennedy told Bush. “They’ve already placed a bounty on your head.”

“Five thousand francs,” said Cotard. “You see why we ‘ad to ‘ide you. I ‘oped that such close quarters would not unduly bother you.”

Bush took a tentative sip of the wine. It was a rough claret, but after his parched hours anything was welcome. “It was not the size of the room, rather the lack of air and water that was the issue,” he said. “Even panting dogs are given water in such heat.”

Cotard spread his remaining arm in an expansive gesture. “I ‘old myself at fault. But as you said yourself, the men ‘ave need of discipline. My orders were ignored. But you did make your demands adequately clear, n’est ce pas? My captain ‘as told me of the noise you made yesterday before I arrived.”

“What choice did I have? I could have died in there. Your men were reluctant even to give me the most basic necessities.” Bush was not going to give quarter to Cotard if he could help it.

“A slight exaggeration, William,” Kennedy said. “If the colonel and I hadn’t arrived - ”

Bush glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “I know. I would have had my throat cut. What charming company you keep these days, Archie.”

Kennedy turned to Cotard. “I must apologise, colonel, Mr Bush is - ”

“Mr Bush is prickly,” said Cotard, “’E is like a – ‘ow do you say it? Like an ‘edge’og.”

A smile tugged at Kennedy’s mouth, and he sniggered, trying to hide it behind his hand. Bush glared.

“But you are right, Bush,” the colonel went on, “Now that the threat of discovery is past for the present, I shall of course find you more comfortable quarters. But in return you must do something for me.”

Here it comes, thought Bush. Inherently suspicious by nature, he had been expecting the catch. “And what would that be?” he asked.

 

***

 

“I ‘ave need of your skill as a sailor,” Cotard said simply. Kennedy watched as Bush flicked an eyebrow, clearly not believing him in the slightest. He couldn’t help wondering what had passed between the two of them – it was plain that Bush didn’t trust Cotard, and was being civil only with extreme reluctance. No doubt William found the colonel too frivolous, too clever, too…French. Kennedy knew that he never suffered fools gladly, and Cotard was good at giving the impression that he was a fool. He was also swift to make a joke at Bush’s expense, and Kennedy knew too how much William hated that. “There is a small vessel, the Amelié, moored in a cove ten miles from here. She ‘as lost ‘er capitane – ‘e went missing three days ago. I need you to sail ‘er across the Channel.”

Bush glanced at Kennedy, who immediately guessed the question that was coming. “You’re a sailor. Why can’t you take command?”

Kennedy shook his head. “ I was a sailor. I’m out of practise.” He smiled. “Besides, you were my senior officer. You have years’ more experience than I.”

“I’m flattered.” Bush flushed at the evidently unexpected compliment. He never did know how to react to praise, Kennedy remembered. “But why the ship? Is it for smuggling?”

Archie recalled that he had told Bush he had been travelling across the Channel with the free-traders. With the blockades in place the only sailors cunning enough to evade them were those intent on flouting the law. “Of a sort,” he said.

“A lady of my acquaintance wishes to leave France,” Cotard explained. “I ‘ave agreed to assist her. Monsieur Devereaux has been ‘elping also.”

“We were to have done the same for the unfortunate Anstruthers,” Kennedy added, “but the man holding them is an unscrupulous bastard. We couldn’t get near them.” He had been angry and concerned to hear of the plan’s betrayal. Much work had gone into the proposed rescue of the Anstruthers, and to see it all fall apart because of treachery was galling. It was also extremely worrying. If someone was aware of their plans, then how much other information was now with a possibly enemy?

“But we must try once again. I do not intend to be duped a second time. Until then I intend to make sure that this lady makes ‘er escape tomorrow night. Your ‘elp will be invaluable, Bush. The crew are a rabble who ‘ave need of a firm ‘and.”

Bush’s eyebrow arched a little further. “And if I refuse?”

“Well.” Cotard gave an elegant shrug. “If you wish to remain in France…”

Kennedy knew that Bush would not wish to entertain that thought for a moment. But he also knew that his friend would not immediately agree to something so dangerous, especially if the French authorities were already searching for him. Bush was a cautious man, and also incredibly stubborn. Once he dug his heels in there would be no moving him. Archie had to do his best to prevent such a situation – if Bush would not agree to help purely because he disliked Cotard they were all sunk. “You don’t really have much choice in the matter, William,” he said, “This is your only way back to England.”

“You seem to flit back and forth at will,” Bush pointed out.

“I have contacts. Hard-earned contacts. And I also peak French. I’m sorry, but were you to try and reach the coast alone the authorities would find you in no time.” Archie felt no satisfaction in putting things so bluntly – he was merely stating the facts as they stood. Bush might be reluctant to admit it, but he was nothing if not practical. He would understand that this was his only option, eventually. “Your best chance – your only chance – is to leave on the Amelié with us. And,” he added with a little theatrical bow and a smile, “I for one would value your company as well as your skill.”

Bush flushed again, much to Cotard’s obvious amusement. Clearing his throat and looking rather embarrassed, Bush tried to marshal his stern expression. “It seems I have no choice,” he said reluctantly. “Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

“Come now, Bush, surely you do not think of me so ‘arshly,” Cotard said, leaning back in his chair. His dark eyes were dancing. “I can assure you that I do not ‘ave ‘orns or a tail. I am sure that one of the ladies of my acquaintance would ‘ave pointed them out.”

Bush looked as though he had absolutely no interest in Cotard’s conquests. Kennedy had heard about some of them and knew that they were numerous. Cotard was extremely garrulous when it came to the charms of women. “Very well,” Bush said, “I have to agree. But I wish to make it perfectly clear that the plan appears foolhardy with troops still in the area, and I don’t like it one bit.”

Cotard go to his feet. “You are too suspicious, Bush.”

“I’ve always been given good reason to be so, colonel.”

Now it was the Frenchman’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I must leave you now – I ‘ave some business to attend to, but I will see you at dinner. Monsieur Devereaux will look after you until then.” He smiled mischievously. “Maybe ‘e will find you a bone to chew upon.”

 

***

 

With a wink and a wicked grin, Cotard departed, leaving Bush fuming impotently and wishing more than ever that he were able to plant his fist squarely on that laconically handsome face.

“Insufferable bloody Frog!” he exclaimed once the colonel was out of earshot.

“He’s a good leader and a clever man, William,” Kennedy said, quite obviously doing his best not to laugh, which just annoyed Bush even more.

“He’s a bloody nuisance!” Bush snapped.

“Nevertheless, he’s in charge here, he is the only one with even the most basic control over the men, and he does hold your life in his hands.”

That knowledge was particularly galling. To owe anything to Cotard…! “I’d rather be beholden to Bonaparte.”

Kennedy chuckled. “He certainly knows the best way to irritate you.”

“You would know all about that – you have more experience than most.” Bush groaned. “You’re right. He knows exactly how to annoy the hell out of me. Bastard.”

“He’s certainly that. A damned arrogant bastard. But he’s your only hope of getting back to England. Come on,” Kennedy said, turning towards the door, “I’ll find you some fresh clothes. You need them.”

Bush could not argue with that. He levered himself out of the chair and reached almost automatically for the walking stick. “A clean shirt would be a godsend.”

“You’re going to need more than that.” Kennedy still sounded amused.

“Oh, why?”

“Because, Mr Bush, if you ride around in France in a British lieutenant’s uniform you will be shot. No questions asked.”

 

 

***

 

“Horatio! This is a surprise!”

Anna stood on the doorstep, golden hair in an elegant chignon, her cheeks a little flushed as though she had just run all the way down the stairs from the top of the house. There was a delighted smile on her face, but Hornblower knew that it was not really directed at him – her bright blue eyes were continually searching the street behind him. After a pause came the question he had been expecting: “Is William not with you?”

He would rather have gone into a battle against a fleet of 74s than do this. He forced a smile. “Can we go inside?”

She must have guessed from his behaviour that something was wrong. “Of course,” she said, and stepped aside, ushering him into the dim hallway.

After enquiring about his health and asking if he required any refreshment, she sat down beside the empty hearth, folded her hands in her lap and looked at him expectantly. “Well?” she asked. “Where is he?”

Hornblower took a deep breath. “In France,” he said, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened to speak, so he leapt in further, suddenly desperate to explain before she could jump to the wrong conclusions. As he did, he could see her eyes hardening, her lips becoming a thin line. There was no sense in lying, or trying to distort the truth in any way to make it sound better – Anna would never be fooled by falsehoods, she was far too sharp for that. He knew that he could never placate her as he could Maria. She just sat there, saying nothing, until he was done.

There was a long pause. Hornblower found himself standing to attention under her gaze. It had been an utterly unconscious movement, brought on no doubt by the haughty set of her head, and the disdainful light in her eyes. Just at that moment there was no doubting that blue blood ran in her veins.

“So you left him there,” she said at last, and the accusation in her voice was like a knife blade.

He stiffened. “I had no choice.” Even to his ears the words sounded hollow. Was he trying to convince himself as well? “William would understand. I had my duty - ”

“You men and your damned duty!” Anna exclaimed, suddenly rising to her feet and crossing the room until she was virtually nose to nose with him. “It’s your excuse for everything! Do you honestly think that, duty or no, Will would have given you up so easily?”

“He would have followed his orders and done what had to be done.” But would he? A little voice made itself heard at the back of Hornblower’s mind. Remember the ship. Remember Wolfe…

Her eyes flashed. “William is more than just your lieutenant, he is your friend!”

Trying to push the nagging feeling of guilt away, he lifted his chin defiantly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I tell you I had no choice.”

Anna’s hand whipped up, lightning fast. His head snapped to one side with the force of the impact – the sound of the slap echoed through the room. “There is always a choice,” she hissed, “What matters is whether you have the courage to make that choice.”

Slowly, he straightened, one hand pressed to his smarting cheek. Never had a woman struck him, though Madame Bonaparte had tried. But then, no other woman he had met possessed Anna’s fiery temperament. “Were you in the navy, I could have you executed for striking a superior,” he told her, deliberately keeping his voice even.

She looked at him contemptuously. “I count myself fortunate indeed that I am not one of your sailors, Mr Hornblower. And I can assure you now that in no way will you ever be my superior.”

Hornblower said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He gathered what remained of his dignity, picked up his hat and made his way to the door, trembling with anger. Anger directed not just at Anna, but also, he realised, at himself – not just for allowing himself to be struck by a woman, which in itself was galling enough, but also for putting his duty before friendship. William would never have abandoned him, he knew that. It had only been two years since the fort at Samanà, when Bush and Archie had followed him into the tunnels, disobeying Buckland’s orders and in spite of the very real possibility that they were all going to die. Only two years, but it seemed like a lifetime. He remembered Bush being unable to shoot Wolfe, because to do so would mean that Wolfe would shoot Hornblower… Command had changed, complicated things for him, but not for them it seemed.

“If he does not return, his blood will be on your hands,” Anna said as he turned the door handle. “Remember that.”

The door shut behind him. He leaned upon it for a moment, passing a hand over his eyes.

How could he forget?

 

***

 

On the other side of the door, Anna paced the room, her skirts swirling behind her. In a sudden rush of movement, she snatched up a vase from the window sill and flung it into the empty grate. It shattered with a satisfying crash, shards flying out onto the rug and barely missing her. For a long moment she stood still, shaking with fury, just staring at the remains of the vase.

Duty. Duty! It was all that mattered to him! Because of this intangible force he could neglect his wife, abandon his friends, and convince himself that he was doing the right thing as long as the twin gods of ‘duty’ and ‘honour’ were appeased. Anna could not understand these mysterious deities, and despite William’s attempts to explain, she could never accept them. To him it was a way of life – he had pledged himself to the service of his country, and would lay down his life should it be necessary, believing it to be the right thing to do. Anna could not agree. Ruled by her heart, her passion, she could never even consider allowing her actions to be dictated by some strange ideal. To her family and friendship were far more important.

And now, because of duty, William was stranded across the Channel, probably wounded and possibly dead. And all because his captain and so-called friend valued his duty too much to wait a few minutes to make sure of his safety. Anna’s hand went instinctively to the locket around her neck, the locket which contained a curl of dark hair bound with a black ribbon. He had still been convalescing when she had suggested that they each give the other something as a love token. She recalled the amusement in his eyes as she snipped the lock of hair from his queue, taking her time to choose the most perfect curl. Oh, Will…

A sudden determination gripped her. Perhaps there was something she could do. She glanced at the clock, listening to make sure that Horatio’s footsteps had faded in the passage. As the second hand ticked closer to six o’clock, she made a decision. Crossing swiftly to the door she stepped out of the parlour, calling down the hall as she found her shawl and slipped it on, “Martha, I’m going out! Tell maman not to keep dinner waiting for me.”

If she was lucky she might be able to catch the admiral before he headed for his club or a dinner appointment. One thing was certain – Hornblower might be able to resign himself to Bush’s loss, but Anna most assuredly was not.

 

TBC


	4. Part Four

PART FOUR

 

 

After the oppressive heat, the cooler air of the evening was a blessed relief.

Bush savoured the touch of the light breeze on his skin as he washed himself under the rusty pump in the kitchen courtyard, Kennedy on hand with a towel and jokes about Hornblower’s love of deck showers. It was wonderful to be out of the stuffy, dusty house and back into the fresh air once more. Though used to close quarters aboard ship, Bush never could stand being cooped up.

“You’ve been using this place regularly,” he remarked as he dried his dripping face. Though the house was largely derelict, he had seen odd examples of comforts, such as a pile of blankets and several lamps in one room, and a new-looking chest in another.

“On occasion. The location is ideal – near to the coast, and from the road the house looks abandoned. The place is like a labyrinth inside, though. It’s full of rooms in which to hide,” Kennedy said, handing him a clean shirt.

Bush pulled it over his head. Being of a similar build, the clothes Archie had produced from a supply concealed in one of the store rooms almost fitted him. The shirt and loose trousers were rough, akin to a seaman’s garb, but they were clean and a welcome respite from his heavy uniform.

“You must be used to hiding by now,” he said.

“Patrols are everywhere. You’re far safer here than you would be outside these walls,” Kennedy replied.

“I can imagine. This place looks capable of withstanding quite a siege.” Bush glanced up at the substantial walls around them, covered in lichen and trailing ivy.

Kennedy shrugged. “You know the French aristocracy.” Bush didn’t, but he opted to say nothing. “It was designed to keep the peasants out. I have it on good authority that about seventy years ago one of the marquises had the local village razed to the ground because it spoilt his view.” There was no disguising the contempt in Kennedy’s voice, or the curling of his lip as he spoke.

“Good God.” Bush blinked in surprise. “What happened to the people?”

“Sent to beg on the streets. Most starved to death because the harvest was poor and the price of bread became extortionate.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Precisely. When you put it like that you can see why the French people have an axe to grind.”

Bush’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at his friend. “You’re not turning into a revolutionary, are you, Archie?”

Kennedy smiled and shook his head. “Of course not. Let’s just say that this life makes me appreciate the views of others.” He passed Bush a shapeless brown jacket. “How is Anna?”

It was an abrupt change of subject. Bush loosely knotted his neck cloth and shrugged on the jacket. “Well, I think. I had a letter last week.”

“Are you missing her?”

“Yes.” Bush found himself blushing. When he saw that Kennedy’s smile had widened into a grin he found that he was laughing. He’d been thinking about Anna far more than he would have been willing to admit. “Yes,” he said, shaking his head and smiling, “Yes, of course.”

“Glad to hear it. Are you ready?”

“Hmm.” Leaning over the trough in the corner of the courtyard, Bush squinted at his reflection. “I suppose so. What’s the plan for tonight?”

Kennedy clapped a hand on his shoulder, and steered him back inside. “Food, and then a couple of hours’ sleep. You’ll need it – tonight is going to be a long one.”

 

***

 

Anna stood in the street, drawing her shawl tightly around her.

The interview she had managed to secure with Sir Edward Pellew had not gone as she had hoped. The admiral, initially reluctant to receive her, had been sympathetic, but regretfully told her that there was nothing he could do. He could not justify sending men and ships in search of one stranded officer. It was unfortunate, but his tone implied that competent officers such as William went missing all too often. Anna tried to blame Horatio, still seething with anger at what she regarded as wilful abandonment of a friend, but it had been an unwise move.

Pellew looked at her gravely, his hands steepled in front of his face. “You do Mr Hornblower an injustice. I gather from Mr Orrock’s report that his captain waited as long as he dared before withdrawing. He sent one of the hands after Mr Bush, but neither of them made it to the bridge before the enemy began to advance.”

Anna flushed. “He did not tell me that.” She felt foolish. Her temper was quick – perhaps she had been too harsh, too hasty in judging Horatio. But it had still been he who gave the order that left William behind in France…

“We take a risk every time we go into battle,” Pellew said, rising and walking to the window, “we wonder every day if this time we will not return. It is the chance we take. Mr Bush will have been aware of the risk, and he will have followed his captain’s orders despite it. That is the mark of a good officer, and he is certainly that. He will also have understood the difficult decisions that his captain must make. Command is never easy, and few situations are ever as cut and dried as they might first appear.”

It was a rebuke, a gentle one, but a rebuke all the same. Anna held her head high defiantly. The fact that she may have over-reacted and been unjust to Horatio, whom the admiral obviously regarded with not a little respect, did not change the fact that the man she loved was trapped across the Channel in enemy territory. “I take it that you will give me no assistance?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Pellew shook his head. “My hands are tied.”

“Then it seems I must take matters into my own. Thank you for your time, Sir Edward, I am sorry to have wasted it.” She rose to her feet, shaking out her skirts.

As she reached the door, the admiral said, “What do you know of Mr Robert Anstruther?”

It was a singularly random question. Anna blinked in surprise. “Should I know the name? I have never heard it before.”

Pellew gave her a strange, searching look. “It is the name of the man the Hotspur was sent to France to rescue. I thought that perhaps your father might have had dealings with Mr Anstruther.”

Anna shook her head. “Never to my knowledge. I was not aware of the man’s plight or existence until you mentioned him just then.”

“Hmm.” The admiral turned away, back to the window. “Thank you, Miss Maitland. Good evening to you.”

Confused, Anna left, feeling more than ever like a scolded child. There had been none of the humour or compassion she had been led to believe characterised Pellew. The man seemed to have much on his mind. She frowned, and hurried away from the admiralty, heading back into town. If Pellew would not help, then there was only one person she could turn to. The problem was that she had no way of contacting them, and no way of knowing whether they were even in the country. She had just one lead, and there was no telling whether it would be of any use, but it was her only chance.

Decision made, Anna quickened her step. She had wasted enough time already.

 

***

 

The light had not long faded when Bush ventured out into the courtyard once more. He had tried to sleep, but the lumpy mattress, dust-choked coverlet, coupled with birds rustling in the rafters and a scratching in the wainscot had prevented him from dropping off for more than a few minutes. Eventually, his mind too active for sleep, he abandoned the attempt and limped out into the corridor, intending to get some air.

He soon discovered that he was not alone. A tiny orange glow resolved itself into the tip of a cigar – Cotard was leaning against the wall, exhaling a ring of blue smoke. The stub of tallow that Bush had found and coaxed into reluctant life revealed the Frenchman’s lean face, creased for a moment in a contented smile.

“You could not sleep, either?” he asked, after a few minutes silence, during which he gave no indication that he was aware of Bush’s presence. He took another drag on the cigar and offered it to Bush, who shook his head. “Monsieur Devereaux tells me that I should congratulate you, Bush.”

Bush raised a questioning eyebrow, wondering what Kennedy had been saying about him, and Cotard laughed.

“I wish you very ‘appy, mon ami. I ‘ope that she is beautiful. Is she beautiful?”

“I think so.” Bush felt himself flush with embarrassment at being asked such a question of a lady. Discussing a bit of muslin in this way was one thing, but to talk of Anna in such a fashion…

“Bon. A man deserves a goddess,” Cotard said wistfully, looking up at the dark sky. The night was a clear one, stars twinkling invitingly in the black depths. “Venus, Aphrodite…”

The colonel’s tone aroused a spark of curiosity within Bush. “You’re not married?”

Cotard exhaled slowly and shook his head. “Non. There was a woman, many years ago, but…” He shrugged. “I ‘ave not seen ‘er since the Revolution. So many lives were destroyed.”

“She died?”

“Disappeared. I can only assume that she is dead. She was well-born, you see, an aristocrat. And you know what ‘appened to most of them…”

Bush did. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

Something in his voice must have caught Cotard’s attention, as the man cast him an interested glance. “You ‘ave lost someone yourself?”

Bush looked at his feet. He had not thought about her in some time, if he was being honest. It had been more than twenty years ago, and they were little more than children. Growing up together, it had not been until he went away to sea that he realised he had fallen in love with her. And then… “A long time ago. Calf love. She was carried off by the influenza while I was at sea.”

“I am sorry also,” said Cotard. He offered the cigar once more, and this time Bush took it.

“As I said, it was a long time ago.” He inhaled a lungful, releasing the smoke in a slow stream. “I was very young. We grow, we change. Life goes on.”

“But the memory remains, eh?”

Bush handed the cigar back. “It does indeed.”

The two men stood for a while in companionable silence. For Bush it was something of a novelty to feel on an equal footing with Cotard, to have had a conversation without the usual verbal fencing that infuriated him so much.

At length, a footstep sounded behind them. Both turned to see the shadowy outline of Kennedy standing in the doorway. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said, “It’s time for us to leave.”

 

***

 

The family were still at dinner when Anna returned to the Maitlands’ lodgings.

Closing the door quietly behind her, she ran swiftly up the stairs to her bedroom. Once there she went straight to the wardrobe, and pulled out the garments she had kept hidden at the back for the past few months. Bush had not asked about the civilian clothes he had left behind in London - which she had borrowed to steal aboard the Hotspur - and so Anna had kept them, intending to return them when he was on shore again. Before then, however, they would be of use to her once more.

She was halfway through the by now practised routine of disguising herself as a man when there was a soft tap on the door. Anna swore under her breath. “Who’s there?”

“Only me, cherie,” came her mother’s voice, muffled by the wood. “May I speak with you a moment?”

With an irritated sigh, Anna strode across the room and opened the door. She admitted Annette without explanation, and continued dressing. Her mother watched her, arms folded, for a few moments before she said,

“I see that you are taking matters into your own hands.”

“No one else seems inclined to help me. Pellew and Hornblower as good as told me to leave William to his fate.” Anna stopped as she pulled on her waistcoat and turned to look at Annette. “How did you know about Will?”

Annette shrugged gracefully. “Martha told me. She was concerned.”

“Martha should learn not to listen at doors.” There was a pause. “Have you come to tell me not to go?”

“Oh, ma petite,” said Annette with a sigh, “Would you listen to me if I should? I understand your plight – I did not rest easily until I was with your father again. But…”

“But you think as they do. Will was doing his duty, and his loss was an occupational hazard.” Anna’s tone was harsh as she picked up the blue wool coat, shaking it out. It still held William’s familiar scent, and she had to stop herself holding it to her face for a moment. Instead she put it on, sliding her pistols into the deep pockets. “I won’t believe it, maman. I won’t just abandon him.”

“You should not be so hard on them. They are men, and they think differently to you and I. They are ruled by the head, we by the heart, ne c’est pas?” Her mother regarded her carefully. “What do you intend to do?”

Anna thought through the plan she had devised on her way back from the Admiralty. There was only one course of action left to her. “I need to find Salomé. She has contacts in France who may be able to help. There is a man named Clive, a naval surgeon who served on the Renown with William and Archie Kennedy – he has been Kennedy’s eyes and ears for some time. If I can find him, then I have a chance of getting a message to either Salomé or Archie. It’s the only lead I have.” She met Annette’s eyes. “It will mean searching the taverns.”

“Anna - ”

“I have no choice, maman. If no one else will help me, I have to do it myself. You know what that is like – you wouldn’t give up on the man you loved, and he would not give up on you.”

Her mother nodded. “I understand, cherie. But please be careful. I could not stand to lose you so soon after finding you again.”

 

***

 

Bush felt more comfortable in the saddle.

He had been wondering how the journey back to coast was to be accomplished in secrecy. Kennedy and Cotard would tell him no more than they believed necessary, which, while he was used to being kept in the dark by Hornblower, frustrated him. As they had left the cover of the chateau, he looked around, seeking any form of transport that may have been concealed, but could see none. Surely they would not be making the journey on foot? His twisted ankle felt a little better for the doctor’s ministrations, but it was still acutely painful to walk more than a few yards.

However, he need not have worried. Cotard led them into the woodland that surrounded the house – there, tethered in a clearing with two of the surly brutes that made up the partisan forces to watch over them, were several well-kept horses nonchalantly cropping the grass. The colonel shot a glance in Bush’s direction. “Will you be able to ride with that leg, Bush?” he asked with a slight smirk.

Bush met his gaze levelly. “I used to ride horses bareback as a child - one of the advantages of having a blacksmith for an uncle. I’ll manage.”

“Excellent.” Cotard swung himself into the saddle with practised ease, his missing arm not hampering him at all. He watched as Bush mounted – Bush bit back the grunt of pain that threatened to escape as he put his foot in the stirrup, and must have made a creditable performance as the colonel nodded approvingly. “You ‘ave a good seat, mon ami. I will admit to being surprised.”

“Our Mr Bush has hidden depths, colonel,” said Kennedy with a grin, settling himself on his horse to Bush’s left. “Is that not so, William?”

“In my experience, few men are ever as they appear to be,” Bush replied pointedly, “Even those we think we know well.”

“’Ow very true, Bush,” agreed Cotard, gathering the reins into his hand. He turned to the partisan holding his horse’s bridle and spoke rapidly to the man in French. The partisan’s truculent expression didn’t change, but he gave a sloppy salute and disappeared into the trees. “They will gather their party and meet us at the ship,” Cotard explained for Bush’s benefit.

“You’re sure of that? They look like the most ill-disciplined rabble I’ve ever seen. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole lot deserted during the night,” Bush told him truthfully.

Cotard raised an elegant eyebrow. “You would be surprised, lieutenant. They are the fiercest fighters you could wish for. Sometimes one ‘as to sacrifice discipline for courage.”

Bush didn’t believe that for a moment. “Sometimes, colonel, you can have both, and the loyalty and respect of your men.”

Cotard’s response was to touch his heels to his horse’s flanks, and without another word their journey had begun. Bush fell into line behind Kennedy, Styles – a less natural horseman it would be hard to find – bringing up the rear.

“Well said, sir,” the big man whispered.

Bush nodded. “We’ve be given a job to do, Styles.”

“Aye, sir, so they tell me. Are we workin’ for the Frogs, then?”

“Working with them,” Bush replied, adding when he glanced round and saw Styles’s disbelieving expression in the moonlight, “It’s not something I’m happy about, either, but it’s our best – probably our only - hope of getting home.”

“I ‘ope you’re right, sir,” Styles said seriously.

“So do I, Styles.”

 

***

 

The tavern was heaving, several ships in port and their men disgorged into the alehouses and brothels of Portsmouth Point.

Anna kept her head low and her hand on the pistol in her belt as she made her way across the crowded tap room. Thankfully, her height and the deliberate swagger she put into her walk kept her safe from too many curious glances. She approached the bar, and made a show of leaning on it, waiting with exaggerated weariness to be served. The bartender, deep in animated conversation with some particularly rough-looking customers, eventually noticed her and ambled over. Anna ordered ale, and put down a half crown carefully on the bar. The man eyed it greedily – it would no doubt pay for several drinks in this establishment.

“I need some information,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could. It was a trick she had perfected years ago when fleeing from France masquerading as a boy. A little part of her felt a thrill to be courting danger in this way again, buoyant with the adrenalin rush of acting a role once more. “If you can provide it, the money is yours.”

The bartender’s hand shot out for the coin, but she swiftly withdrew it. “I’ll do me best, sir.”

“I’m looking for a man called Clive,” said Anna, watching the man’s reaction. “He is a doctor, a naval doctor. Do you know him?”

The bartender frowned. “Can’t say as I do. We ‘ave a few quacks in ‘ere, but I don’t as recall one of that name.”

Anna swore inwardly. Clive was her only link to Kennedy, and therefore to Salomé. She had had no contact with her cousin since the death of Francois du Vallon. “Are you sure? It is very important that I speak with him.”

“No.” The man shook his head. “I ain’t served anyone of that name.” The look of disappointment on his face when she closed her hand over the half crown was palpable.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said, and straightened, turning away from the bar. Getting in touch with either Kennedy or Salomé was her only hope of obtaining help for Bush. They had contacts in France; they would know what to do. But without Clive she had no chance of finding either of them – there appeared to be no option left to her but to comb the taverns of the town with the hope that she might discover Clive in one of them.

As she turned, someone caught hold of her arm. She looked up to see a weasley little fellow with lank hair and blackened teeth standing rather too close for comfort.

“Hold hard there, sir,” he said with what was evidently meant to be an ingratiating smile. Anna tried hard not to wince at the rank smell of his breath. “Mebbe I can help you.”

Her first instinct was to pull away and leave, but if the man could really help her find Clive…she couldn’t afford to take that chance. “Do you know where I can find a doctor by the name of Clive?” she asked.

“Clive the surgeon on the old Renown?” The man nodded and grinned. “Aye, I knows ‘im. I can take you to ‘im, but it’ll cost you, mind.”

“I can pay.” As Anna said the words, she felt a hand brush the pocket of her great coat. The man had mover surreptitiously while he was speaking, sidling up to her as she was pressed against the bar by the crush. Almost without thinking, she twisted; her hand whipping from her pocket in reflex, the pistol barrel jammed into his throat. The gun might be small, but it was deadly, and the man’s eyes went wide. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, jabbing him with the pistol for emphasis.

“Sorry, sir, I were only just - ” the man stammered. He looked wildly around for help, but either the clientele had not noticed his plight or had chosen to ignore it as none was forthcoming.

“I know exactly what you were ‘only just’,” Anna told him. “Can you take me to Clive or not? Tell me!”

The man winced as the pistol stabbed him under the chin. All Anna had to do was pull the trigger and the explosion would blow his head off.

“’E can’t ‘elp you sir,” said a familiar voice behind her. A calm, reasonable voice. “Mebbe I can.”

 

***

 

For a moment, she hesitated.

The bilge-rat who had tried to rob Anna stood frozen; his eyes wide and fixed on the pistol.

“Sir?” Matthews said gently, waiting for a reaction.

Reluctantly, Anna released her victim. Matthews had seen her with a weapon before – she could handle it, but he didn’t believe that she was capable of killing a man in cold blood. He had seen immediately that he needed to step in, however – it wasn’t Anna he was worried about, but rather the quick trigger fingers of some of the tavern’s clientele.

The rat backed away carefully, the relief on his face obvious to all, before turning tail and disappearing into the crowd. Anna turned, pocketing the pistol. There was relief in her eyes, too, though she would never have admitted it.

“I thought it were you, sir,” Matthews said, deliberately stressing the ‘sir’. “May I ‘ave a word with you? Outside?”

Anna nodded, and followed him out of the tap room. The air was filled with the familiar odour of sweat and ale, mixed with the noxious smell of cheap lantern oil. Matthew was used to the smell, but it was apparent from the grateful lungful Anna took as they exited the tavern that the evening air, unpleasant as the scent of Spice Island was, came as a welcome respite.

“How did you know it was me, Matthews?” she asked quietly.

“You shouldn’t be in there, miss,” Matthews replied seriously, “It ain’t no place for a lady, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. Can get very rough this time o’ night.”

“I was just – I - ” Anna grimaced. “Yes, I know. Is it so obvious that I’m a woman? Even dressed like this?” She gestured to her heavy coat and three cornered hat, which shrouded her shape and features successfully.

“Only to them that knows you, miss.”

“I can take care of myself, Matthews.”

Matthews had no doubt of that, but the chivalrous instinct in him (had he known the phrase for it), and the knowledge that Lieutenant Bush would most certainly not approve made him say, “Ain’t no place for a lady, miss. Even one such as yourself.”

She glared at him for a long moment from beneath the brim of her hat. In the shadows it would have been easy to mistake her for a man, her height working in her favour. “Believe me Matthews, it is only because of somewhat desperate circumstances that I am here.”

“Ah.” Matthews looked at his feet. “You’ve ‘eard about Mr Bush, then.”

“I have.” Anna’s jaw was set determinedly. “You must know that I can’t just give him up for lost. I have to do something.”

The bos’n sighed. “This ain’t the way to do it, miss. You’re puttin’ yourself in danger. Mr Bush wouldn’t like that - ”

“I have to find my cousin, Matthews, either Salomé or Mr Kennedy. They are the only ones who can help me find Mr Bush.” She folded her arms. “Can you help me to find Doctor Clive? If not, I’ll have to continue my search. I’ll go all the way to Southampton if I have to.” The pistol was in her hand again. “I can protect myself.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but that won’t be much protection if someone ‘as their ‘and in your pocket,” Matthews pointed out. “I’ll ‘elp you, ‘course I will. To be honest, I’ve an interest in the matter, too.”

Anna frowned. “What interest could you have? Unless…” Realisation appeared to dawn, and her face cleared. “Where is Styles? The two of you are hardly ever seen one without the other. Is he - ?”

“Aye, miss.” Matthews nodded. “’E’s in France with Mr Bush.”

 

***

“Well, then you have to help me!” Anna exclaimed. “Surely you can’t want to abandon your friend?”

“It ‘appens in war, miss,” Matthews said sadly. “No one’s ‘appy about it, but…the cap’n waited as long as ‘e dared. Would o’ waited longer, but…”

“He had his duty to do.” Her tone was bitter.

Matthews didn’t miss it. “Don’t be ‘ard on Mr ‘Ornblower, miss. ‘E would never ‘ave chosen to leave ‘em behind like that. Sometimes…” He sighed. “Sometimes you ain’t got a choice.”

Anna was silent for some moments. She knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that Horatio wasn’t really to blame. She couldn’t imagine that he would wilfully abandon Bush and Styles, who she knew had been through so much with him over the years. “Yes, I know,” she said eventually, thinking of France, of Nicky. Of du Vallon. She shook her head, trying to banish the memories. “I know.”

Matthews was looking at her in concern. “Miss?”

She swallowed, blinking away the treacherous tears that had begun to prickle behind her eyelids. “I won’t just give up,” she said fiercely, directing a sharp glare at the bos’n. “Will you help me?”

“Aye.” Matthews sighed again. “Aye, I will.”

 

***

 

He led her into the lower part of town. Anna kept her hand tightly on her pistol and the collar of her coat pulled up around her face despite the warmth of the evening. She knew it was irrational, but she could feel eyes on her back with every step she took. The Point had been bad enough, but it soon became evident that this was most definitely somewhere she should not have ventured.

“Are you sure this is where we’ll find Clive?” she asked Matthews.

The bos’n nodded grimly. “Aye. Mr Kennedy told me where he was likely to be in case I ever needed to contact ‘im.”

“You were – are – very fond of Mr Kennedy.”

“Known ‘im from a lad, miss. Mr ‘Ornblower too. They’re good men, both of ‘em. Mr ‘Ornblower took it mortal bad when ‘e thought Mr Kennedy ‘ad died.” Matthews was silent for a moment. “We all did.”

Anna knew well how such a loss must have felt. Though she was still angry with Hornblower, a momentary softening towards him made itself known. Then she remembered that the difference between his loss and her personal grief was that Archie Kennedy still lived, having cheated death at the very last moment. Others had not been so lucky.

She and Matthews did not speak again until they reached a darkened house, accessed via an equally dark alley. Anna stepped warily, and her pistol was already out of her pocket before she realised that the cause of the sudden disturbance was an unfortunate cat upon whose tail she had inadvertently trod.

Matthews had been reluctant to bring her to such a low street, but Anna had insisted. She kept back as he went up to the front door. It seemed that Clive’s alcohol addiction had driven him to take the cheapest lodgings available. It seemed odd to her that Kennedy was trust a man so frequently in his cups to gather intelligence for him, as Clive could hardly be discreet, but he obviously trusted the doctor. Bush, however, had been sceptical, as was his wont.

“Is something wrong?” she hissed, seeing Matthews hesitate on the doorstep. There was barely any light here beyond that from the moon – she could just make out the bos’n putting a hand on the door. With a slight creak, the door swung open.

“Now that don’t look right,” Matthews muttered.

It certainly didn’t, and Anna wasn’t going to wait in the shadows in that case. She was behind Matthews as he pushed the door all the way open and crept into the hall, her pistol still in her hand.

The house appeared to be deserted.

“Does he live here alone?” Anna asked quietly.

“’E’s lodgin’ ’ere – Mr Kennedy told me in case I needed to contact ‘im.”

“Where is everyone?”

The bos’n didn’t reply. He opened a door, and Anna could make out the glow of a candle.

“Hello?” she called. “Doctor Clive?”

There was no answer. Matthews had stepped into the room ahead of her – he stopped on the threshold. “Oh, bloody hell,” he breathed.

“Matthews?” Anna peered over his shoulder through the gloom. It was difficult to make out anything in the weak light from the single faltering candle flame – in the corner was a chair, and in it a figure seemed to be slumped, head resting on the table before it. One hand held a quill, ink dripping on the scattered papers. The steady sound of liquid hitting paper was loud in the quiet of the room.

Matthews moved quite suddenly, hurrying towards the table. He tentatively put a hand on the figure’s shoulder and gave it a shake. There was no reaction. The horsehair wig the man wore slid from his head to lie upside down on the table. Anna suddenly realised that the dripping sound wasn’t ink.

It was blood.

Matthews looked up and met her eyes. “’E’s dead, miss.”

Anna ventured closer. There was a scrap of paper clenched in Clive’s left hand. She knew that she should have been feeling shocked, horrified, but somehow emotion refused to come. Numbed, she wondered whether she was somehow becoming familiar with death. It was a thought she didn’t like at all. Hesitantly, she pulled the paper from the dead man’s fist – it was difficult, as he had evidently been holding on tightly to whatever it was.

Finally she pulled it free, smoothing it flat and angling it towards the candle. There was one word written on the paper:

RETRIBUTION.

 

TBC


	5. Part Five

PART FIVE

 

Anna looked at the paper again.

“’Retribution’,” she read. “What does it mean?”

Matthews glanced anxiously at the front door. “We ‘ave to leave, miss, won’t do to be found ‘ere by the Watch.”

“Retribution…Retribution…there must be some meaning to it!” Anna hardly heard him, trying to cudgel her brain into action. It seemed to have been numbed – Doctor Clive’s blood was still soaking into the papers that littered the table. The doctor had been Kennedy’s eyes and ears for some time…surely it was no great leap of the imagination to think that this death was linked back to Kennedy somehow? And through him perhaps to Hornblower…and Bush…

“We ‘ave to tell the cap’n, miss,” said Matthews at exactly the same moment as Anna mused, “We need to take this to Mr Hornblower.”

“’E’ll know what to do,” the bos’n told her firmly.

Anna, while not exactly desperate for another meeting with Horatio after their altercation earlier that day, knew that he was right. There was no one else they could involve. “Very well,” she said, and, glancing over her shoulder added, “Let’s be away, before we are taken for a murder we didn’t commit.”

 

***

 

In the alley beyond the lodging house, a dark shape watched the two figures emerge, carefully closing the door behind them, and hurry off towards the lights of the town.

Once it had given them enough time to make their way back to the main streets, the shape detached itself from the shadows of one of the buildings across from the late Doctor Clive’s accommodation, and followed.

 

***

 

The Amelié, to Bush’s relief, was a small but sturdy ship, with sleek lines and a capable French crew.

He had been a little apprehensive, concerned that he might be left with some of Cotard’s motley band of partisans for hands in place of experienced sailors, but the men appeared to know what they were doing even if they weren’t entirely happy to discover that their acting captain was an Englishman. They were truculent, their manner obvious even if their words were not understood – Bush was determined to show them that he was no useless lubber. Styles was enjoying his temporary promotion to bos’n, learning some approximation of French curses from Kennedy, who delighted in teaching him. Even Cotard, supercilious bastard that he was, seemed content to bow to Bush’s skill as a sailor - a victory of sorts for Bush, small though it was.

Their flight had been accomplished with as little fuss as possible, the ship moored in a deserted cove that seemed all but hidden from prying eyes. Bush had been unsettled by the ease of their escape, but Cotard laughed at his fears. “This ‘as been planned down to the last detail, Bush,” was his response, “Everything ‘as been taken care of.” Bush had retorted that the plans had been scuppered once already and limped off to check the rigging.

Finally at sea and leaving the French coast behind, he could relax a little. He stood on deck, savouring the breeze as it ruffled his hair, stinging his cheeks with spray. There was only one thing now that was causing him concern, and it would not leave his thoughts for long: their passenger, this lady of Cotard’s acquaintance. Bush could never feel happy with a woman on board – women did not belong in the naval world, at once a distraction and a disturbance. Anna, unconventional as she was, had scoffed at his views, but he believed himself to be right in them. War was dangerous, sailing was dangerous, and women should not be put unnecessarily in danger. They should be protected, and Lady Isobel Fanshawe appeared to be very much in need of protection.

An Englishwoman, she had apparently become separated from her diplomat husband on their journey home from Italy, where he had until recently been stationed. The French authorities had repeatedly denied her the necessary papers she needed to leave the country, and she had been forced to seek an alternative means of travel. Bush had not asked how such an obvious lady had come to be acquainted with Cotard – one glance at the flirtatious smile of the colonel and the manner in which he bent over her ladyship’s hand told him all he needed to know.

There was a footstep behind him, and he turned to see her ladyship at the head of the companionway, the breeze whipping her cloak around her shapely figure. In the encroaching daylight her red hair appeared gold, spilling from its pins to fall over her shoulder. She smiled at him, and in that moment even Bush could not deny that she was an extremely attractive woman. The reason for Cotard’s devotion became more understandable, even if he could not condone it.

“I could not sleep,” she said, joining Bush at the rail, and a delicate waft of perfume mingled with the scent of the spray. “I hope my presence will not inconvenience you, captain?”

Her arm brushed his. He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “My rank is lieutenant, ma’am – I am acting captain only.”

“Surely not.” She turned large green eyes on him, blinking. Her lashes were long and dark. “You do surprise me. I would certainly have taken you for a captain – you have the required air of authority about you. I am sure I can rely on you to get me home safely.”

“I will certainly do my best, ma’am,” Bush said dutifully.

She glanced out to sea, an odd little smile lifting her lips, and murmured, “I’m sure you will.”

Frowning, Bush had no time to reflect on what that smile might mean as before he could say any more, he was interrupted by Styles. The big man knuckled his forehead, looking apologetic. “Sorry, sir. A couple of the Frog ‘ands are bein’ difficult. Mr Devereaux asked me to come an’ find you.”

“All right, Styles, lead the way.” Bush doubted that anything he shouted at the hands would make the blindest bit of difference, but it was worth a try. He followed Styles to the waist, where an altercation in rapid French could now plainly be heard, and forgot Lady Isobel and her cat’s eyes as duty and discipline reasserted themselves in his priorities.

 

***

 

 

“It’s not good, sir.”

Hornblower looked again at the scrap of paper in his hand, feeling Anna’s eyes on him all the time. “No indeed, Matthews.”

He had been enduring a long evening at home; listening to the ticking of the clock and Maria’s endless tales of people he had not met and never wished to, when a violent hammering upon the front door had startled them all from their cosy domesticity. Hornblower had not been sorry for the distraction, but when Matthews and the disguised Anna had told him the deeply worrying facts of their experiences he could have wished for something a little more mundane. At first he had been quick to discover whether the death was indeed suspicious, knowing the doctor’s addiction to drink and belligerent manner when in his cups, but Matthews’s assertion that Clive had been stabbed in the chest ruled out any natural cause. And this note was even more disturbing… Retribution… Clive’s death in such a brutal manner could only have one explanation, and it involved them all. After so long, and despite all Pellew’s caution, Renown was being dragged into the open once more.

“What does it mean?” Anna asked, frowning. Hornblower had bristled when she had first entered the house, recalling their earlier quarrel and expecting another tirade, but she seemed to have forgotten the altercation for the moment, for which he was thankful. “Some kind of revenge? I assume that as they targeted Doctor Clive they must be trying to get to Kennedy, but…”

“I am sure that whoever is behind this note intends the word to have a double meaning - Retribution was the name given to the Gaditana, one of the Spanish ships captured by the Renown in the West Indies. If that is the case, then they mean to target us all in some way.”

“Then someone from those days killed the doctor, sir?” said Matthews. “Who is there left to bear a grudge?”

Hornblower looked up and met the bos’n’s eyes. “I can think of one person, Matthews.”

Anna watched, evidently puzzled, as the unspoken name passed between the two men. Matthews’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, now, sir, I can’t believe ‘e’d stoop to murder!”

“Neither can I, Matthews, but who else is there?” Horatio clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the hearth. He knew that he needed to contact Kennedy immediately, but the death of Clive had removed any possible channel of communication – with Bush still in France they were scattered, and when scattered they were vulnerable. “Such devotion can drive a man mad, we have seen as much before.”

“That’s true enough, sir, but I still don’t think that anyone would…I mean, after all this time, sir, with everyone knowing Mr Kennedy was dead - ”

“We all know that Kennedy is alive,” Anna put in bluntly. “What is to stop others discovering the secret?”

She was right, it could not be denied. It had been dangerous for Archie to return to England, and especially to Portsmouth, in the full gaze of the Admiralty. Hornblower could only hope that his friend was a safe distance away, beyond reach.

 

***

 

Kennedy was, in fact, standing on the deck of the Amelié, watching Bush harangue the French sailors. He couldn’t help grinning – Bush might not speak their language, but he was certainly making his feelings known in no uncertain terms. Given some of the choice words his friend was using, Kennedy wasn’t sure he wanted to translate, especially not given the presence of Lady Isobel on deck, though as Bush’s voice had a tendency to carry she had probably already heard.

“Everythin’ all right, sir?” Styles was at his shoulder.

Kennedy chuckled. “As well as can be expected, Styles.” He nodded towards Bush, having noticed how protective Styles had become of his lieutenant since that morning when the Renown was taken. “How’s our acting captain?”

“’E’s all right, sir – think ‘is leg’s painin’ ‘im. Ain’t normally that bad tempered.” There was a rueful smile on Styles’s battered face. “I should know – usually me that cops most o’ it.”

“And what about…” Kennedy glanced upwards, to where Lady Isobel was standing, leaning on the railing and smiling down at them. As she noticed him watching she lifted her head, tossing back her mane of red-gold hair, before turning her attention back to the scene below her. She was really watching Bush, he noticed, who was apparently completely unaware of the fact as he paced the deck in front of the surly crew. “What do you think of her ladyship?” Kennedy asked.

Styles gave the question a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “She’s a right lovely lady, sir, but beyond that…I don’t know. What’s she doin’ ‘ere, all on ‘er own? Where’s ‘is lordship?”

“That is a question I’ve been asking myself, Styles. Very careless of Sir Peregrine to lose his wife like that, don’t you think?”

“If I were lucky enough to ‘ave a wife like that I wouldn’t be so careless with ‘er, sir,” the big man said.

“Hmm,” Kennedy mused, frowning. “Styles?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep an eye on her ladyship for me, will you? I want to make sure she is treated exactly as she should be while on board.”

Styles looked puzzled, but he didn’t question the instruction. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Oh, and one other thing – look after Mr Bush, but for God’s sake don’t let him know that you are.”

Now the big man grinned, and knuckled his forehead. “I’ve plenty of practise at that, sir.”

 

 

***

Bush stretched out on the cot, his ankle throbbing as though he has plunged it into a bucket of hot coals.

Gritting his teeth, he prepared himself for the acute agony of pulling off the boot he had somehow managed to draw over the bandages. He had come below deck, ostensibly to get some rest, but truthfully unable to endure the pain of standing any longer, leaving Kennedy in charge. Despite his modest protests otherwise, Bush knew that his friend had not forgotten any of his training, and was still a damned good sailor. And he could also command the crew in their own language, a definite advantage. Bush was finding it difficult to gain respect from men he was forced to address through a translator.

The boot removed, he threw off his jacket and loosened his neck cloth, suddenly sweating from the combined pain and effort. He lay there, looking up at the deck above him and trying to bring his breathing back under control. Christ, but that had hurt! It was some moments before he had gathered himself enough to sit up and start unwinding the bandages to see just what further damage had been done. He had barely begun to undo the dressing when there was a knock on the cabin door. Expecting it to be Kennedy, he did not even glance up. “Come!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said a low, musical and very female voice. Bush’s head flew up in surprise to see Lady Isobel standing in the doorway, a look of concern on her face. “Shall I go?” she asked, “If you were going to sleep - ”

“No, no, please, it’s nothing.” He found himself both dismayed and irrationally pleased to see her. “Can I be of assistance?”

“I merely came to wish you a good night, what little there is left of it. And also to thank you for your assistance in this venture – I have been trying to return to England for some time, but ill luck seems to dog my steps.” She came a little into the cabin, and her green eyes widened as she took in Bush’s bandaged foot. “Oh, but you are hurt! Is there anything I can do?”

Bush sat up straight, quickly. “Please, ma’am, don’t concern yourself. It’s just a sprained ankle, nothing to worry about.” He decided not to mention the fact that it hurt like the very devil – while Anna might dispense with social niceties, it was quite plain that Lady Isobel would not be of the same persuasion.

“I am sure that is not the case,” she said, coming closer. There was little room in the tiny cabin. Bush was suddenly acutely aware of his state of undress, and that it wouldn’t do for them to be caught together like this. He backed away, further down the cot, until he collided with the bulkhead. Isobel smiled. “Whatever is the matter, lieutenant? Are you afraid of me?”

Bush’s mouth was quite dry. “No, ma’am, I merely - ”

“Very chivalrous of you, I’m sure. But that foot does look extremely painful. I wonder that you can walk on it.” She crouched, bending over his leg, and Bush was treated to a fine view of her white bosom, exposed by the low neckline of her gown. There was a single beauty spot on her collarbone. Bush was aware that he felt rather warm.

Her nimble fingers were unwrapping the bandages. “These should be soaked in cold water,” she said, glancing up at him with another of those beguiling smiles. “That should help with the swelling.”

He swallowed. From the look in her eyes he realised that she wasn’t just referring to his ankle. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Standing, she took the bandages over to the tin basin of cold water which served as a wash stand. As se soaked them she said idly, “Tell me, are you the same William Bush who was caught up in that dreadful business on HMS Renown a few years ago?”

The question caught Bush briefly off-guard. Renown was rarely, if ever, mentioned now. The Admiralty, as always with anything distasteful to them, had drawn a discreet veil over the affair, which was one of the many reasons why Kennedy’s survival had to remain a closely-guarded secret. Other men would have denied their involvement, concocted a story. Lying, however, was not in Bush’s nature. “I am,” he said reluctantly.

“I thought so.” Isobel glanced over her shoulder, and there was definite appreciation in her eyes as they ran over him. “Forgive me – my father is a naval man. I saw the Renown return to Plymouth, and I thought I had not mistaken your face. You are very striking, you know.”

As always, Bush found himself blushing at the compliment. He mumbled his thanks as she brought the bandages back to the cot.

She laughed. “You should not be so reticent, Mr Bush. A handsome man like you should not be so unsure of himself, particularly with women.” Bending down again, she busied herself with the deft wrapping of his ankle. He tried desperately not to think about the light touch of her fingers on his skin. After several moments, she looked up. “Tell me, do you find me attractive?”

The directness of the question stymied him. Eventually he found his voice and said, somewhat hoarsely, “You are a very beautiful woman, ma’am, but I regret that I am engaged to be married.”

She arched a delicate eyebrow. “You regret the fact? Does the lady in question not please you, then?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he told her, managing to be firm as at last Anna’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. She looked reproachful. What the hell was wrong with him? “I - ”

There was thankfully another knock on the door, preventing the conversation from going any further down that uncomfortable road. Relieved, Bush called out, “Come in!”

Kennedy was on the threshold, and ran an interested eye over the little tableau in the cabin. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Bush, but we have need of you on deck,” he said, mouth twitching in evident amusement.

“Thank you, Mr K – Mr Devereaux,” Bush replied, inwardly cursing himself for the slip. “I will be there directly.”

Lady Isobel tied off the bandage and slid gracefully to her feet. “I will leave you to your business, gentlemen.” In the doorway she turned, and smiled at Bush. There was something rather hungry in that smile, he decided. “I shall look forward to continuing our conversation, lieutenant.”

When she had gone, Kennedy looked at Bush. There was mischief dancing in those blue eyes. “Maybe I should have come back later,” he said, grinning.

“It was nothing,” Bush snapped, annoyed now to have been discovered in such a compromising position.

“Oh, of course, that was plain for all to see. I suppose she just happened to come by your cabin…?”

“I did certainly not invite her here. She came of her own accord.” Bush reached for his jacket and pulled it on, wishing that he still had his uniform, something that would help to pull rank with the rabble of a crew.

“Well, she has obviously taken a liking to you, William. You should be flattered: a beautiful woman like that - ”

“In case you have forgotten, Archie, I am to be married,” growled Bush as he got painfully to his feet. He told himself that it was the discomfort in his ankle that was making him irritable, not the shame of realising that he had come very close to betraying Anna with another woman. He was an honest man, however, and he could not believe his own deception. “I’ve no interest in other women, no matter how beautiful they are.”

It was plain from his expression that Kennedy believed the fiction no more than Bush. “Of course, of course,” he said. “How’s the leg?”

“Fine.” It did actually feel a little better thanks to Lady Isobel’s ministrations, but Bush wasn’t about to admit that.

“I wish she’d taken a liking to me,” Kennedy said wistfully as he followed Bush out of the cabin. Bush, trying desperately to forget how her ladyship’s proximity had affected him, wholeheartedly agreed.

 

***

 

“Sir, you can’t really think that Mr ‘Obbs might ‘ave killed Doctor Clive!” Matthews exclaimed, watching Hornblower pace the kitchen. “Mr ‘Obbs were on our side, at the trial - ”

“I know, Matthews,” Hornblower said, acutely aware that Anna was listening to every word. The Renown had not been spoken of in a long time, and he had been happy to keep things that way. Even though Kennedy had ultimately survived, none of them had escaped from the incident unscathed. With Wellard, Clive and Sawyer all dead, besides themselves that only left Hobbs. “Who else do you suggest that we suspect? He was always Sawyer’s man, and if this note means just what it suggests…”

“You believe that someone intends to avenge Captain Sawyer?” asked Anna sharply.

Hornblower nodded. “I fear so.”

There was a sudden knock at the front door which made them all jump. They looked at each other. Matthews opened his mouth: “Sir…?”

Hornblower waved a hand for silence, and crept towards the door. A moment later the handle turned and the door opened slowly, revealing Maria silhouetted against the lamplight in the hall. Horatio breathed an inward sigh of relief. “What is it, Maria?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Horry.” Maria’s eyes widened slightly to see Anna sitting at the table in a man’s coat, but she said nothing, turning instead back to her husband. “There’s another visitor for you – he says it’s most urgent.”

“Very well, Maria, I will see him directly. Please show him through to the parlour.”

“I was going to, but he insisted - ”

“I would rather speak to you now, if I may, sir,” said a voice Hornblower hadn’t heard for some time. There was a man standing behind Maria, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a low-crowned round hat. Maria stepped aside to allow him to enter the room – as he moved, the light revealed the pitted, bullish features of Gunner Hobbs.

 

TBC


	6. Part Six

PART SIX

 

 

“My apologies for disturbing you at this hour, captain,” Hobbs said, coming properly into the kitchen and removing his hat. The arrogance was still there, Hornblower noted, despite all that had happened – Hobbs had only to stand in a room to make it appear that he had every right to be there. The gunner nodded politely. “Mr Matthews.”

“Mr ‘Obbs,” Matthews replied warily. The two men had never seen eye to eye in the past, their loyalty to their respective officers coming between them at every turn. Had Hobbs’s devotion not turned the man so completely against him, Hornblower might have admired the loyalty he had given to his captain.

Maria was still standing in the doorway, watching them.

“It’s all right, Maria, nothing to worry about,” Hornblower told his curious wife. She looked at him, and then at Anna, mutely questioning why she should have to leave while the other woman remained, but obediently left the room. He closed the door firmly behind her, and took up a position in front of it, clasping his hands behind his back. “To what do I owe this honour, Hobbs? The last I heard, you were on the Andromeda in the Mediterranean.”

“I was, sir, but she was damaged in a fierce storm as we neared the Channel. She’ll be in the yard for some weeks yet,” Hobbs replied. “Between that disaster and a bout of dysentery on board, it was decided to pay off what was left of the crew.”

“And so here you are. Have you come to me looking for work? I fear I must disappoint you – Hotspur has her full complement of men at present.” Hornblower spoke lightly, but there was something distinctly unsettling about having been talking about Hobbs a few minutes before only for the man himself to turn up large as life on his doorstep. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, had been listening…

“That’s not strictly true, though, is it, sir? She’s missing a first lieutenant and a bos’n’s mate, I believe.”

Anna and Matthews exchanged a glance. It was true that keeping secrets in the navy was a difficult business, but Bush’s plight had not been made common knowledge due to the delicacy of the situation. Pellew was understandably loath to let confidential details leak out, and Hotspur’s mission had certainly been that. Hobbs had somehow obtained inside knowledge, or found a Hotspur with a very loose tongue.

Hornblower frowned, and decided to err on the side of caution. “What do you mean?”

Hobbs laid his hat down on the table. “The past is catching up with us, captain, faster than any of us perhaps would like.”

“This is no time for games, Hobbs. Get to the point.”

“Very well.” The gunner reached into his coat and withdrew a folded newspaper, which he carefully laid on the table beside his hat. “I take it that you’ve not yet seen this? It’s last month’s Naval Chronicle.”

Reluctant to trust the man, even after his quite unexpected turnaround at the court martial in Kingston, Hornblower did not hurry to the table. Anna was already looking at the paper, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “I don’t understand,” she said, “Should this mean something?”

Looking over her shoulder and skimming the page, Hornblower understood. Hobbs had turned to the list of deaths in service. At the foot of the page was a familiar name: Lt HG Buckland, HMS Pegasus. Hornblower was surprised at the lack of emotion he felt at reading of Buckland’s death. The man had been a coward, and tried to put the entire blame for the mutiny he had himself endorsed on Hornblower’s shoulders, would have been prepared to see him hang to save his own neck, and yet Horatio felt…nothing. After the Renown debacle, Buckland had been lucky to get another commission, and now… “How did he die?” he asked.

“Cleaning a pistol – the charge hadn’t been properly emptied and it went off in his face,” said Hobbs emotionlessly. “Very nasty.”

“An accident, then.”

“Officially. Unofficially, some see it as suicide. Guilt over what happened on Renown, and afterwards,” Hobbs added, in answer to Hornblower’s questioning glance.

Immediately after the trial, Hornblower could have believed that. Buckland had certainly appeared to go to pieces then, after seeing Kennedy stagger half-dead into the courtroom and take the blame, but after all this time..? “Nearly three years is a long time to nurse a guilty conscience.”

“Exactly, sir. But there is another theory. And now that Doctor Clive is also dead…”

“Two old Renowns, dead within a few weeks of each other.” Hornblower felt his blood run cold once more.

“Wait a moment,” Anna said sharply, fixing Hobbs with a gimlet stare, “How did you know of Doctor Clive’s death? No one here has mentioned it.”

The gunner smiled slightly. “I followed you and Mr Matthews here from the doctor’s lodgings. It was lucky for you that I did – it put the fellow who was trying to tail you in a right…shall we say, difficulty?”

Matthews looked perplexed. “Someone else were followin’ us? Surely not the Watch - ”

“This bilge-rat was certainly not there in an official capacity, Mr Matthews.”

“And exactly what were you doing waiting outside the doctor’s lodgings if you knew he was dead?” asked Anna. “Are we to believe that you simply went there to speak with him and discovered the body?”

Hobbs met her stare with a steady pale one. “Is that not what you did, Miss Maitland?”

Before Anna, her expression indignant, could reply, Hornblower said impatiently, “What does all this mean, Hobbs?”

“All right.” The gunner straightened, folding his arms and leaning on the table. “Tell me, Mr Hornblower, do you believe in ghosts?”

 

***

 

“I don’t like it, sir. She’s listing a little to port – can you feel it?”

Bush certainly could. There was a definite movement under his feet as he stood on the deck, far more than was usual. The breeze had turned into a strong wind in the short time he had been absent, battering the sails and causing Cotard to hold onto his hat with his one hand. “Check the hold, Styles,” Bush said. The big man knuckled his forehead and ran off. Bush turned to Cotard. “Colonel, are we carrying any cargo?”

The Frenchman shook his head. “Nothing more than ‘er ladyship’s luggage and the usual necessities for a ship of this size. Is there a problem?”

“There could be. She's listing, almost as though the hold were badly stowed. I could understand it if there was a strong cross wind, but that isn’t the case – we’re running before the wind.” Bush glanced above him. “We’re carrying too much sail, though – we’ll need to take a reef. Mr Devereaux?”

Kennedy smiled slightly. “Just like old times,” he muttered, moving to the rail and shouting the order in French. Bush watched in approval as the crew – albeit reluctantly - went about the practised motions of taking in the sail, swarming into the rigging like monkeys. Given some time, and without the language barrier, he could make something of them, he was sure. Gradually, as the canvas was brought in and tied, shortening the sail, the Amelié wavered and then returned to something like an even keel.

Bush nodded, satisfied. “That’s better. I’d better go and inspect the ballast, just in case. Take charge, Mr Devereaux.”

Kennedy threw him a jaunty salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“Thank you, Mr Devereaux,” said Bush, arching an eyebrow. “Carry on.”

 

***

 

An inspection of the ballast turned up nothing untoward, but to his dismay the ship began to list again, more than before. He was taking a look at the well, to check for leaks, when Styles found him a little while later.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” The big man was looking extremely worried, his face pale in the lamplight.

Bush’s stomach lurched – if Styles was looking like that, there must be something seriously amiss. “What’s the matter?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“We’re takin’ in water, sir, badly. There’s an ’ole, below the water line. It’s only ankle-deep down there now, sir, but it’ll only get worse if we don’t stop it quick.”

“Good God.” The colour must have drained from Bush’s own face – he felt suddenly cold. Was this why they had been allowed to escape from France with such ease, because the ship had been sabotaged? To his shame, he must have stood frozen for some moments, before Styles said gently,

“Sir?”

Bush shook himself. He had no time for daydreaming. “Get a team on the pumps, Styles. I’ll find out which of these Frogs is the carpenter.” Styles nodded and hurried off. Bush made his way back above deck, where Kennedy was shouting to the hands, who were milling about uselessly as the ship continued to list. He ran up the last few steps, struggling to keep his balance. “There’s a leak! We have to get as many hands on the pumps as possible!”

“A leak?” repeated Cotard, blinking in surprise. “’Ow is this possible?”

“Perhaps you could tell me, colonel, as you have allowed us to put to sea on a vessel which was evidently not worthy!” Bush snarled. “Did your men not check the hull?”

“My men would ‘ave made every preparation. ‘Ow dare you accuse them of incompetence!” the Frenchman snapped back. “Remember to whom you are speaking, Bush!”

Bush was in no mood for a landlubber to be pulling rank on him. Someone was to blame for this disaster, and as Cotard had come up with the plan in the first place that made him culpable in Bush’s eyes. “Oh, I am well aware of that, sir!”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Kennedy, stepping between them. “This will not help our situation!”

Bush rounded on him. “I’m amazed at you for allowing yourself to be caught up in such a ludicrous plan as this! You, a sailor yourself - ”

“An ex-sailor, Mr Bush,” Kennedy corrected calmly. “But you are wrong – I checked the ship myself meticulously. There was no leak two days ago.”

“Well, there most certainly is now! It might perhaps have been wise to allow me the necessary time to check the ship before we left, instead of being in such a damned hurry,” Bush pointed out, glaring at his friend. “For God’s sake, get those men moving, and find out which one of them is the carpenter – we need to plug that bloody hole before the ship goes down!”

 

***

“No,” said Hornblower firmly, “No, I most certainly do not believe in ghosts.”

“Do you, Mr Hobbs?” asked Anna, arching an eyebrow.

“Not in the normal run of things, ma’am, no,” the gunner replied. “I’m not what you would call a superstitious man, but I had a little shore leave a few months ago, and during that time I made a pilgrimage to Captain Sawyer’s grave. To pay my respects.”

“A trip to the West Indies must have set you back a tidy sum.”

Hobbs smiled thinly at the gibe. “My captain was a hero, Miss Maitland. He may have died on his way to Jamaica, but his body was preserved in a cask of rum and returned to England, where he was buried as was right and proper. I make it my duty to visit the grave whenever I am ashore. It is not visited as often as it should be, in my view, so I was certainly surprised this time to find a single flower and this letter on the tomb.” He reached into his coat pocket once more and produced a rather crumpled sheet of writing paper, which he passed to Hornblower. “It was sealed, and addressed to ‘The Mutineers’.”

Hornblower took the paper. On it was written a single sentence: VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAYETH THE LORD. The words were clearly printed – in his mind’s eye he could see another paper bearing the same handwriting…he scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out the bloodstained note that Anna had found clutched in Clive’s hand. Everyone watched as he laid the two papers side by side on the table. His heart almost missed a beat.

The writing was exactly the same.

“Two Renowns dead,” said Hobbs, “Five more to go?”

“I take it you’re including yourself in that, then, Mr ‘Obbs?” asked Matthews.

“Why should I, Mr Matthews? I was always loyal to the captain.”

“So was the doctor, but it didn’t do ‘im much good, did it?” the bos’n pointed out.

Five, thought Hornblower. Himself, Bush, Matthews, Styles and…Kennedy? But as far as the world was concerned Kennedy was dead… “How did you know of Clive’s death, Hobbs?” he asked. “Were you watching the house waiting for an opportunity of your own, or did you try to warn him?”

“And how do you know my name?” Anna added. “We have never met to my knowledge – I think I would have remembered you.”

“That is true, Miss Maitland. I came across Doctor Clive purely by chance in the Keppel’s Head, two weeks back. He introduced me to someone who has been most useful.” Hobbs glanced across the room, to the shadowy corner on the far side of the fireplace – Hornblower had not noticed until that moment that someone was standing there, someone who must have entered the room with a silent tread at some point during the conversation.

“And that person was - ?”

A diminutive figure stepped forwards, turning back the voluminous hood on her heavy cloak. Dark hair tumbled back from a doll-like face dominated by large black eyes which regarded them all with a calm, unflinching gaze.

“That person was me,” said Salomé Saint Clair.

 

***

The Amelié rocked again.

“For Christ’s sake, get those men on the pumps!” Bush bellowed, hanging onto the rail and trying to claw his way back up the tilting deck. Somewhere to starboard there was a cry and a splash as another man chose to take his chance with the sea rather than waiting to be dragged down with the ship. “What the bloody hell are they doing? Do they want to drown?”

“They’re panicking!” Kennedy shouted from behind him. “Some of them think the ship is cursed because there’s an Englishman in command!”

If he hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, Bush would have stared in amazement at such stupidity. “Hell’s teeth, what a crew!”

“They’re simple men, William, not trained British hands – we can’t expect them to behave as our own sailors would!”

“We should expect them to know what to do when the damned ship is sinking!” The ship listed heavily to port, timbers creaking, throwing them both against the railing. Bush looked up, seeing sailcloth flapping loose, the mast tilting crazily overhead. “If we don’t do something soon we’ll all be dead before morning. How could you let Cotard draw you into this bloody nightmare? A child could have planned better!”

Kennedy struggled to his feet again, eyes wide. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you fool!”

“Fool, am I?” Bush muttered. Hand over hand, he made his way across the deck, which was sloping drunkenly. If something wasn’t done quickly the ship would be on her side and there would be no saving her. There was only one thing left to do. He reached the companionway, and clung onto the rope handrail, swinging himself down to the steps.

“Where are you going?” Kennedy bawled after him.

“To bail this bloody ship out by myself, if that’s what it takes!”

 

 

***

 

Below deck, all was confusion.

The lamps swung crazily overhead, sending huge shadows across the ship – in brief flashes of light Bush could make out men running this way and that, babbling in French. He stalked through them, trying to roll with the ship as he walked, grabbing them by the shoulders and practically throwing them towards the companionway that led to the hold. “Pull yourself together, man!” he shouted at a hand who turned a terrified face to him and, seeing Bush’s furious expression, quickly crossed himself. “Man the pumps! The pumps, do you hear me?” The boy just stared at him, uncomprehending. Growling, Bush pushed past him and continued on his way. Cursed, were they? Cursed with bloody coward Frogs, certainly!

As he moved the ship listed again, sending him staggering into one of the bulkheads. By the time he had righted himself there was someone at his side, someone it took him several seconds to identify in the poor light: Carlotta, Lady Isobel’s Italian maid, whom Bush had seen only briefly as the women came aboard and forgotten about until now. The girl was wringing her hands, her eyes wide with fear.

“Il mio dio, il mio dio,” she cried. “What is happening? Are we all going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Bush told her impatiently. The last thing he needed at this moment was a panicking woman. “Tell your mistress to get up on deck. She’ll be safer there.” When she hesitated, staring at him, he gave her a swat on the rear. “Go!!”

Carlotta ran. Under normal circumstances Bush would have gone to help Lady Isobel to safety himself, but there was a far more pressing problem to deal with. He resumed his journey towards the hold, feeling the ship repeatedly lurch under his feet. She was going over, there was no doubt about it, and there would be very little he could do to stop her, but he had to try. The steps to the hold were slick with water – he all but slid down them to find a scene from a nightmare awaiting him.

Water was pouring into the hold, gushing from a hole about three feet wide. Styles, soaked and bedraggled, was working at one of the pumps with a couple of the French sailors he had evidently coerced into helping him. They were working like demons, but appeared to making little headway against the flow. Bush stood at the foot of the ladder, knee deep in water, and knew that all was lost. The Amelié apparently carried no carpenter, giving them no chance of making repairs, of blocking the hole and pumping out the hold. All Styles and his men were doing was exhausting themselves and prolonging the inevitable.

“Leave it, Styles!” Bush yelled over the rush of the water. “Get out now, and quickly!”

The big man lifted his head, shaking away droplets and blinking in surprise to see Bush there. “Sir?”

“I’ve decided it’s hopeless, Styles. Get those men on deck, and hurry!” Bush turned, not waiting to hear if he had been acknowledged – once given an order Styles would know exactly what to do. He hauled himself back up the steps and hurried through the rolling lower deck, ignoring the pain in his ankle, which was making itself known again. Roaring wordlessly, he drove what few men remained below before him, ushering them up the companionway. He could hear Styles and the others clattering behind, and all of a sudden the ship heaved, as though she had been breached. Bush grabbed for the rope rail, all but pulling his arm from its socket as the force of the movement nearly threw him from the ladder. He felt his legs go from beneath him, his feet flailing in mid-air before someone caught hold of him, setting him back on the ladder. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the battered face of Styles. The man always seemed to arrive at just the right moment, God knew how.

“It’s all right, sir, I’ve got yer,” the big man said.

Bush tried to recover his dignity, but gave it up as a lost cause. “Thank you, Styles.” He started up the ladder again. Above them as they emerged onto the deck timbers were creaking, the ship groaning under the pressure. The sky was black and angry, clouds scudding across its surface and hiding the dawn light that was trying to break through. The storm that had been threatening, brought by the heat of the day, had finally caught up with them, and with astounding speed. The mast lurched into his vision, tilted crazily. There was only one thing left to do, if any of them were to see the morning.

“Man the boats!” Bush yelled, “Abandon ship!!”

 

TBC


	7. Part Seven

PART SEVEN

 

 

“Archie? Archie!”

There was no response. Bush coughed, spluttered, and spat out the water that spilled into his mouth. He kicked desperately, trying to keep his head out of the water, gasping for breath. It was virtually impossible to see anything, the struggling sun hidden behind a thick bank of black cloud. He could hear nothing but the creaking and groaning of the Amelié as she sank, barely audible itself over the rushing of blood and water in his ears. Cotard, Styles and Lady Isobel were nowhere to be seen. Somewhere a crack of thunder boomed overhead, the sound becoming dimmer as the storm began to move away.

Bush glanced again at Kennedy – his friend had been little more than two feet away, but now, to his alarm, there was no sign of him. He had been able to see him just a few moments ago, a dark shape in the water, blood running down the side of his face from where his head had hit the mast as the lifeboat overturned.

For some fraught minutes it had seemed that they might all be dragged down with the ship, as they struggled to launch the lifeboat between them. The French sailors had abandoned them, more interested in saving their own skins than helping others to escape. Bush, Kennedy and Styles had somehow, with a combined effort that took most of their strength, got the small boat over the side and into the water, Cotard shouting directions as he danced around them waving his one good arm. They sent down Lady Isobel first, her skirts flying in the wind as she climbed down the side of the lurching ship, the sea roiling beneath her. Bush looked over the side and met her eyes, suddenly assailed by unpleasant memories of his own similar predicament not so long ago, washed overboard in a storm, remembering the sheer terror at the moment when he lost his grip on his lifeline and pitched into the torrent below. He shook himself, trying to keep his attention on the matter in hand, and motioned to Kennedy to follow her.

Styles, with dogged determination, would not descend until he was sure Bush and Kennedy were safely on board, despite the fact that the ship was now leaning at a precarious angle, her stern rail almost level with the waterline, her prow in the air. Bush had called him a fool, knowing that Styles could not swim either, but the big man had just said, “Yes, sir,” and stayed put at the entry port. Now, with them all in the boat and the Amelié almost on her side, Bush was becoming desperate.

“Come on, Styles!” he shouted, as the ship groaned, more loudly than before. “She’s going to go!!”

Styles’s reply was lost as a flash of lightning lit up the dark sky and deafened everyone. There was a resounding crack, and a spark - the mast began to topple towards the water, one end now clearly on fire. What was left of the sailcloth flapped madly, ropes flailing into the air, blocking out any view of the ship for several moments. Bush clambered past Cotard, to the bow of the little boat, peering into the gloom for some glimpse of Styles.

“Styles!!” he yelled. “Styles! Where are you, man?!”

There was a shout from ahead – Styles was waving from the rail. And there was someone with him. Lady Isobel cried out in alarm – “Carlotta!” The maid was clinging to Styles’s arm, looking terrified, her dark hair whipping around her head. They were half in the water now, the stern of the ship partly submerged. Someone grabbed Bush’s arm – he glanced round to see that it was Kennedy.

“William! The oars!” he shouted over the din of another roll of thunder. “We have to pick them up!”

Bush didn’t need to be told twice. Between them they manhandled the oars into the rowlocks and began to row desperately towards the ship. Cotard seated himself in the bow, yelling directions and encouragement to them as the craft bobbed madly on the angry sea. It seemed to take forever, but at last they guided the boat nearer to the stricken ship. Cotard and Kennedy dragged the shaking Carlotta into the boat, soaked to the skin and mumbling what sounded like prayers in Italian.

Bush held out a hand to Styles. “Come on, man! It’s your last chance!”

The big man let go of the rail, hand reaching out to Bush’s. In the moment before they touched, Styles looked up, eyes wide in alarm. “Look out, sir!”

Bush looked up, too, and gasped. Above them the mast had been hanging at an angle – now, with a great creak loud enough to be the earth splitting in two, it fell towards them. There was no time to move – shouts, oaths and what must either have been Carlotta or Lady Isobel screaming filled Bush’s ears as the mast hit the boat and everything went black.

 

***

 

“Archie?” The word came out more as a gurgle than a shout. Bush flailed, trying to drag himself upwards, to keep as far above the surface as he could. He spat out water once more. “Archie!” He could have sworn he heard a groan – or maybe he had imagined it in his desperation.

He looked around wildly, and spotted a shape rising to the surface not far away. At that moment the sun chose to reveal itself, its light glancing off a fair head of hair. Bush felt panic, an unfamiliar emotion, welling up within him. Kennedy was unconscious and unable to help himself – if Bush didn’t so something quickly it was obvious that he would drown. But what could he do?

Hornblower had been, much to the amusement of Orrock and Prowse, attempting to teach him how to swim, but it was difficult, and he could barely keep himself afloat. What good would he be to Kennedy? Bush hated the sheer helplessness he felt in the water. His legs were tiring, his chest tight, and there was no one he could turn to for help.

A leaden feeling was taking over his body. He had a momentary feeling of light-headedness before the water closed over his head and he thrashed about in terror, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break out of his chest. For several awful moments he thought he was lost, until eventually, astonishingly, his head broke the surface and he was gulping down air. His flailing hands hit something solid with a painful crack – senses reeling, Bush dazedly realised that it must be the mast of the Amelié, lying in the water as she turned on her side. He clung to it, chest heaving, feeling like a drowned rat.

As his vision gradually cleared, he tried to spot Kennedy. It was a hopeless task – the sea would surely by now have dragged an unconscious man into her depths to be lost forever. In his weakness, Bush felt tears spike in his eyes a the thought that Archie had come through so much only to die in such a pointless fashion as this.

Utterly exhausted, he rested his head on his arm, draped over the mast like a discarded cloak on a chair back. The day was warm, but the sea cold; the wind had died down a little but a chill breeze had sprung up some time before. It was not long before Bush was shivering and wondering whether he would be reunited with his friend sooner rather than later.

***

Anna stared at her cousin.

“Why would Doctor Clive introduce you to Mr Hobbs?” she demanded. Hornblower had been about to ask the same question. Salomé Saint Clair was a spy for a secret league in France, a league of Royalists determined to have revenge upon the revolutionaries whom had taken advantage of the Terror to persecute enemies and settle old scores. Salomé’s father had been one of those guillotined, and she had been sadistically forced to watch by a man who was now, thankfully, dead.

“Because he thought that I might be able to give Mr Hobbs some assistance,” Salomé said with a slight smile. “I have some talent for discovering information that others cannot.”

Hornblower opened his mouth to ask if Kennedy, who had been almost a kind of partner of Salomé’s, knew that she was helping a man none of those involved in the disaster aboard the Renown would find it easy to trust. He closed it again, remembering in time that Salomé knew Archie only by his alias, and therefore would probably not be aware of his real identity. Perhaps Clive had introduced her to Hobbs imagining that she knew who Kennedy really was, and would therefore be more ready to help.

“Miss Saint Clair went to Captain Sawyer’s grave for me,” said Hobbs. “She found another paper had replaced the one I showed you.”

Salomé withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of her cloak. “I kept a watch,” she said, “but I saw no one suspicious enter the church. The paper was propped upon the tomb, unaddressed and simply sealed.”

Hornblower took the latest note, unfolding it with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The writing was just the same as before, no indication of whether it belonged to a man or a woman. This time it took the form of a list, seven lines, which read:

 

THE FOOL  
THE QUACK  
THE WISE MAN  
THE FIGHTER  
THE QUIET MAN  
THE LEADER  
THE DEAD MAN

 

He passed it to Anna, who read it with a frown. “What does that mean?” she wondered aloud.

“Looks almost like a list o’ them cards the fortune tellers ‘ave,” Matthews remarked, after reading it for himself, “All them strange pictures that tell you the future.”

“Tarot cards,” said Hornblower absently, rubbing his chin.

“Mebbe, sir. Don’t rightly know what they’re called, just seen ‘em in Jamaica once or twice.”

“Heathen things,” said Hobbs, disapprovingly. “You see that ‘The Fool’ has been struck through? I believe it to refer to Mr Buckland.”

Hornblower agreed. “Then ‘The Quack’ must be Clive.”

Anna looked at the list again, holding it up the light. Hornblower did not need to see it – with the first two identified, the meaning of the other names became clear. “‘The Leader’,” Anna read, “That must be you, Horatio, which means that ‘The Quiet Man’ can only be referring to William. ‘The Fighter’?”

“Styles,” Hornblower, Matthews and Hobbs said together, without hesitation.

“Yes, of course. And ‘The Wise Man’?”

“Matthews,” said Hornblower immediately.

The bos’n looked flattered, and a little embarrassed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Then that only leaves ‘The Dead Man’,” Hobbs said, looking straight at Hornblower. There was something unsettling about the gunner’s pale eyes. Hornblower recalled Buckland’s vehemence at the trial, his certainty that Horatio had pushed Sawyer into the hold, and his conviction that Hobbs could corroborate his claim. Had Sawyer told the gunner something, just before he died?

He met Hobbs’s gaze, knowing exactly to whom the note referred but not wanting to voice the name unless he had to. “Mr Wellard, surely?”

Hobbs smiled, and it was a smile of satisfaction. “I don’t think so, sir. More than one man died, did he not?”

Anna and Matthews exchanged a sharp glance. Hobbs didn’t see it, not taking his eyes from Hornblower’s face.

“What about Mr Kennedy, sir?”

 

***

“Archie…”

Bush drifted in and out of consciousness.

He dimly remembered clinging onto the mast. Sometimes it seemed that he was still in the water; at others that he was somehow back on board the Hotspur, the deck swaying beneath him with a familiar rhythm. Occasionally he became aware of faces and voices, random snatches of conversation that slipped away almost as soon as they broke through his confusion.

“Will he be all right, do you think?” a woman asked.

“Don’t know, miss – difficult to tell. ‘E’ strong though, ‘e’s come through a lot.” Was that Styles?

Were they talking about him? He felt cold, a deep cold, through to his bones. An attempt to open his eyes revealed nothing more than a blur of dark shapes around him, white splashes that might have been faces swimming across his vision. The effort exhausted him, and he let them fall shut again.

When he came back once more he recalled more of what had happened. The mast crashing down, the boat overturning, and…

“Archie…?” His voice sounded distant, almost as though it didn’t belong to him.

Someone laid a hand on his forehead. “Be easy, Mr Bush,” a vaguely familiar voice said softly, “Mr Kennedy will live to fight another day.”

The hand gently stroked his hair. Bush was aware of a feeling of relief before the voice faded and he drifted off again.

 

 

***

 

“Mr Kennedy is dead,” Hornblower said firmly. “He died in Jamaica. I was with him.”

“Interesting that, sir,” Hobbs remarked. “I’ve been told that there’s no grave in Kingston. No trace of Mr Kennedy at all. You’d think his family would wish to have his last resting place marked.”

“Mr Kennedy was a convicted criminal. He had disgraced his family. His grave would not have been marked – those of criminals never are.” As he said the words Hornblower hoped Archie would forgive him blackening his name even further.

“I would have thought that maybe the commodore, as he was then, might have organised some small memorial,” said Hobbs, evidently unwilling to let the subject drop. “After all,” he added, again looking Hornblower square in the eye, “Mr Kennedy was a brave man.”

Horatio looked back, trying not to give any reaction. That was what Hobbs wanted from him. He knows, he thought, Damn it, he knows…

“Did Sawyer have any family?” Anna asked suddenly, breaking the moment and making Hobbs look away. “Anyone who might wish to avenge him?”

“The captain had a daughter,” the gunner replied, “Charlotte. He kept a miniature of her in his cabin – I saw it many times.”

Hornblower, thankful for the rescue, frowned. “And you think that perhaps this woman might be involved?”

Anna shrugged. “It’s surely worth considering, is it not?”

It certainly was, and for a few moments seemed the only lead they might have until Hobbs, with typical bluntness, poured cold water over it.

“Unfortunately, Miss Sawyer won’t be much help to us. She died, back in 1799,” he explained, when they all looked questioningly at him. “It was a bitter blow to the captain.”

1799…Sawyer had been dangerously unstable just two years later, when Hornblower and Kennedy transferred to his command. It was not inconceivable that he might have been driven towards insanity by the loss of a beloved daughter, and it would certainly explain a few things, Hornblower thought. However, it did not help them now. They were left with a threat and two deaths, with a motive but no clue as to who might be behind them.

“Why would anyone want to avenge the captain now?” Matthews said, “And why do it in such a roundabout way? Makes no sense to me.”

“Some killers like their victims to know that they are being stalked,” said Anna, quietly. She glanced at her cousin, who nodded. “Salomé and I have experienced it. There are some people who delight in teasing, taunting, making the one they intend to kill constantly wonder when the fatal blow will come. They find it…amusing.” Her lip curled in disgust. “These are evil, twisted individuals, with a depraved sense of humour.”

Hornblower fell to pacing the room once more, his only outlet for his frustration. “We have very little to go on. If the person behind this is unknown to any of us then we have little chance of identifying them before it is too late.”

“Is there a possibility it could be someone you know?” Salomé asked. “A disgruntled crew member, perhaps, loyal to his captain?”

“I doubt it. The one person to fit that description is standing there.” Hornblower nodded at Hobbs, who just stared back.

“And the person who wrote these letters is evidently educated;” Anna pointed out, “which surely rules out an ordinary seaman, and all the officers involved are accounted for, are they not?”

“Yes.” Hornblower paced some more, thinking furiously. If the last letter was anything to go by, Styles was next on the list, with Matthews after him. The bos’n he at least had by his side – God knew where Styles was at that moment, and Bush was with him…if the person behind this had discovered that Bush and Styles were together might they ignore Matthews and go after William instead? The mission had been betrayed, it would be an ideal opportunity… And where the hell was Archie? How would they get the news to him that he was also in danger? “Damn it, I wish Bush and Styles were not still missing!”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “As do I,” she said pointedly.

He ignored the jibe. “We would be stronger, safer were we all together. Mademoiselle Saint Clair,” he said, turning to her, “could you find out a little more about Captain Sawyer’s daughter? It may be of use to us.”

Salomé gracefully inclined her dark head. “I have contacts. I will ask.”

“What do you intend to do, sir?” asked Hobbs.

“The only thing I can do, in the circumstances – take it to the admiral. He was there at the trial, he knows what happened,” Hornblower said, his mind now made up.

The gunner gave him an odd look. “I’ll wager he doesn’t know everything that happened.”

Again there was that unmistakable feeling in Horatio’s bones that Hobbs somehow knew. Before he could say anything, however, Matthews said sharply, “And what d’you mean by that, Mr ‘Obbs?”

Hobbs met the bos’n’s gaze steadily. “Nothing, Mr Matthews. I was merely making an observation. Pellew was not aboard the Renown. He does not know the full story.”

There was a tense pause, as the two men stared each other down. Anna was looking at Hobbs with outward dislike; Salomé regarded the scene impassively, her face inscrutable. For what seemed like an age nobody moved. Even after all this time, Renown still had an effect on those involved, one from which they might never escape. Sawyer was still sowing distrust from beyond the grave.

“Nevertheless,” Hornblower said finally, breaking the spell, “I will see the admiral in the morning.” And try to get a message through him to Archie; he added silently, the list staring up at him from the table.

He had to do something.

Any one of them could be next.

 

TBC


	8. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies to those who may have been following this story from the start for the sporadic updates. I've been suffering from chronic writer's block for months now and writing this has been very much like pulling teeth! Thank you for your patience.

PART EIGHT

“Poppycock!”

Hornblower deliberately made no reaction to the admiral’s outburst, instead focussing on a point above Pellew’s head and saying, “Indeed, sir.”

“I would have thought better of you, Hornblower. Believing the story of a man well-known to harbour a grudge, who would have testified against you in Kingston - ”

“Might have done, but did not, for which I am grateful, sir.”

Pellew looked askance at him and harrumphed. “Maybe so. But to immediately accept the word of such a man…a rash decision, sir.”

“So it may prove to be, sir, but the evidence was too great to dismiss the claims out of hand,” Hornblower pointed out. “Two men, two old Renowns, are dead.”

“Yes. Well…” Pellew got to his feet and began to pace the cabin, hands clasped behind his back. The sunlight dappled the deck as it fell through the Tonnant’s great stern windows. “Buckland’s death was an accident. A careless one, but still and accident. There is nothing to suggest otherwise.”

Hornblower did not believe that. Buckland had been indecisive, weak, vindictive, but he had never been careless with firearms to Hornblower’s knowledge. He decided not to mention his view, however. “And Doctor Clive, sir?”

“Clive was a known drunkard. It would not surprise me to learn that he had been killed in a brawl in one of the less-reputable taverns.”

“If he was, then he must have somehow staggered home with a knife in his guts, sir.”

Pellew stopped pacing and eyed him darkly. “And just how do you come to have so much detail in your possession, Mr Hornblower?”

Horatio opened his mouth, and then closed it again. It would not do to reveal that Anna and Matthews had seen Clive’s body, and probably not long after the killer struck. “One hears things, sir.”

The admiral snorted. “Indeed.”

 

 

“I had hoped that you might be able to get a warning through to Mr Devereaux, sir. Even if this turns out to be a hoax, he should be made aware of it, for his own safety if nothing else.”

“Yes.” Pellew made another circuit of the cabin, and took a seat once more behind his desk. “Unfortunately, Mr Hornblower, with Clive dead I have lost my only means of communication with Mr Devereaux. There will be no contact until he decides to show himself once more in England.”

Hornblower raised his eyebrows, surprised that Pellew should trust such delicate and confidential communications to Clive. The man had hardly been the most discreet person in the world. “And Mademoiselle Saint Clair?”

“It has been decided that we should temporarily dispense with Mademoiselle Saint Clair’s services. Until the source of this information leak is discovered,” Pellew explained uncomfortably. “There is no reason to take unnecessary risks.”

“Then surely, sir, if you hold Mademoiselle Saint Clair under suspicion you must also hold - ”

“Yes, Miss Maitland. And through his connection to her, Mr Bush as well. I’m sorry, Hornblower, but I have my orders. The Admiralty commands it.” Pellew looked grave. “If Mr Bush should set foot once more on English soil, he is to be arrested.”

***

“Come on, William, wake up! You’ll sleep your life away at this rate.”

Blearily, Bush opened his eyes. He had been trying to ignore the insistent voice, shaking off the hand that touched him on the shoulder, quite content to remain in the peaceful oblivion that had claimed him since the ship had sunk. The battle at the farmhouse, and then his captivity and the journey to the Amelié, had exhausted him enough without the added exertion of trying to stop himself from drowning. If he were asked, he would have to admit that his bones still felt like lead. Maybe he was getting too old for all this – he certainly started to think so when he saw Kennedy’s grinning face swimming above him. The man was rather pale and had a bandage wrapped around his head, but otherwise he seemed as chipper as usual. It was extremely irritating, especially when Bush had begun to think him dead for a second time.

“For God’s sake, Archie,” he mumbled, “I swear you’re not human. Can’t you at least have the decency to look tired?”

“No time for that, Mr Bush. We’re almost home.”

“Home?” Bush struggled to sit up, looking around him. He had only seen his surroundings in muddled glimpses as he came occasionally from the unconsciousness that had continually and thankfully swept over him – now he could see that he was in the hold of a small vessel, lying on a bed made up of blankets on the deck in the absence of serviceable cots, Kennedy kneeling at his side. A lantern swung overhead, lending an orange glow to the scene. “We were picked up?”

“By a fishing boat out of Gosport,” Kennedy replied cheerfully. “Lady Luck must be smiling on us. You’ve been asleep for most of the journey – I would have woken you earlier, by Lady Isobel suggested I let you sleep. I admit you did look as though you needed it.”

The hold was empty but for the two of them and what smelled like a recent catch. “And the others?”

“All safe, too. Something of a miracle, as I believe we were somewhat scattered. They saw Styles first, then Cotard and her ladyship – Styles insisted that the captain make a search for you and I. We’d both washed up against the Amelie’s hull. I must have hit my head as the jollyboat overturned, as you can see.” Kennedy gestured to his bandage with a grimace. “We’re heading towards Portsmouth now – when we’re in sight of the docks I’ll send one of the hands here on ahead with a message for Pellew.”

Home. Several times over the past few days, Bush had wondered if he would ever see it again. His thoughts went immediately to Anna, wondering if she had been told of his disappearance, and then to Hotspur – would she still be in Portsmouth or would Hornblower have received orders to put to sea again at once? There was the still the question of who had betrayed their mission to rescue the Anstruthers. “Thank God,” he said, lying back down on the blankets. It felt as though any energy he might have had had been leeched from him.

Kennedy peered at him in concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, William? You do look a little pale.”

“I’m fine. I’m becoming rather used to being underwater now.”

The comment elicited a broad grin. “Well, from what I gather you did rather better staying afloat than previously. They told me that when the colonel spotted you, you’d managed to get yourself to the mast and were hanging on for dear life.”

The idea that he might owe his life to Cotard was one Bush decided he would rather not entertain if he could help it. He closed his eyes again. “Go away, Archie. Let me know when we reach Portsmouth.”

“One of these days, Mr Bush, I’ll make you cultivate a sense of humour.” There was amusement in Kennedy’s voice.

“Excuse me, sirs.”

Bush cracked open one eye. Carlotta was standing in the shadows – she looked as bedraggled as the rest of them, her dark hair in rat’s tails over her shoulders. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red as though she had been crying. She curtseyed slightly and said in a tremulous voice, “Mi signora Isobel sent me to ask how Signor Bush fared and to tell you that we are nearing the harbour.”

“Thank you, Carlotta,” said Kennedy pleasantly. “As you can see, Mr Bush is back with us once more. I’ll be on deck directly.”

Carlotta nodded and hurried off. Bush watched her go, frowning. “Funny little thing, isn’t she?”

“Is she? I can’t say I’d really noticed.”

No, I don’t suppose you would, Bush thought, glancing at his friend. Growing up in an aristocratic family, Kennedy would hardly be likely to pay attention to servants. “She’s nervous, almost as if she were afraid of something. She scurried off like a frightened rabbit.”

Kennedy got to his feet. “Well, she did come rather close to drowning a few hours ago. That would be enough to shake anyone. Incidentally, she’s taken something of a fancy to Styles since he saved her when the Amelié went down,” he added with a mischievous smile.

“Dear God, the poor girl.”

“Are you coming?”

Bush looked down at himself, seeing that his coat was missing and his shirt unlaced. It wouldn’t do to disembark in Portsmouth looking like a reprobate, especially with Lady Isobel aboard. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“As you like,” said Kennedy, heading towards the hatchway. “I’ll let Pellew know we’re coming.”

***

“Well? What did he say?”

Hornblower didn’t know why he was surprised to find Anna opening the front door instead of Maria. He should be used to how tenacious she was by now. Throwing his hat onto the hall table, he pushed past her into the hall – Hobbs emerged from the kitchen as he reached the door, face expressionless. “He didn’t believe it,” Horatio said reluctantly. “He’ll do nothing.”

“Should have guessed. The Admiralty don’t want to get themselves involved with anything to do with Captain Sawyer, don’t like the smell of it,” said Hobbs, curling his lip disdainfully. “That’s why they never gave him a proper hero’s funeral.”

Hornblower sat down, rubbing a hand over his face. The last thing he wanted to hear was Hobbs lionising Sawyer. “Very probably.”

“So we just sit here and wait to see who will be the next to die?” asked Anna. “Surely with the evidence of Doctor Clive’s death, and your Lieutenant Buckland - ”

“One death was a plausible accident, the other a likely squalid killing. We have no evidence that either was more than that. Admiral Pellew will go his own way only so far before he must submit to his superiors.”

She sat down on the edge of the table, today a feminine vision in muslin and ribbands, but her determination was just as strong. “Then what should we do now? We can hardly just sit here until someone with a knife comes to call.”

“She’s right,” said Hobbs.

Hornblower sat back in his chair and looked at them both in annoyance. Their names had not been on the list, and they were not directly threatened, yet they were pushing him for answers. He made a decision. “Neither of you need be involved at all. This is my problem, and mine alone – I will deal with it. If you have difficulties with such a suggestion - ”

“Need not be involved?” Anna repeated, eyebrows raised. “Do you honestly think that I will allow William to be threatened, and sit by, waiting for danger to come? I don’t think you know me very well, Mr Hornblower. I found Doctor Clive – I am involved whether you like it or not. Please accept my help rather than pushing it away – we have a common goal.”

“I should order you home, Miss Maitland. The Admiralty would not be happy with your assistance.” Hornblower dared say nothing more. If Anna were to be accused of spying it would have to come from Pellew, not from him. Anna’s attachment to Bush and her forceful personality rather irritated him, but he could not believe she would betray them. Betray him…perhaps – there was no love lost between them – but not Hotspur. Giving away Hotspur’s mission would hurt Bush, and she would never do that.

“As the Admiralty refuses to believe that there is any danger, that scarcely matters, does it?” she said tartly. “I want to help, Mr Hornblower, if you will let me. I have told you that before.”

Hornblower inclined his head, and turned to Hobbs. “And what of you, Hobbs? You are in no danger from this unknown person. Are we to believe that you brought this plot to my notice out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything, sir. I want to see justice done, that’s all. This isn’t justice,” said Hobbs.

“Justice, Hobbs? Justice was done in Kingston – do you not recall?”

Hobbs looked steadily at him. “Some might call that justice, sir. The Admiralty might call that justice. Doesn’t mean it is.”

Hornblower met the gunner’s pale eyes, and once again he felt a churning in the pit of his stomach. He knows…

“Then what should be our course of action?” Anna asked, bringing him sharply back to the present.

“There is nothing we can do at present but wait,” Hornblower said, feeling Hobb’s gaze on him as he rose from the table. “Wait for the next message. And watch our backs in the meantime.”

***

“Ah, Mr Bush! I feared for some moments that we had lost you.”

Bush felt himself flushing as Lady Isobel approached him across the fishing boat’s narrow deck. Somehow she managed to look poised despite her damp and crumpled state – her magnificent hair was loose down her back, and one of the crew had given up a boat cloak for her, swathing her Grecian figure.

“I am glad to see you unharmed, ma’am,” he said dutifully.

She smiled. “Oh, there was no need to be concerned for me, lieutenant. I have some experience of danger – my survival was never really in doubt. As it seems was yours – Mr Devereaux has been telling me of your uncanny ability to sail through… difficulties.”

“Mr Bush is made of stern stuff, ma’am,” Kennedy said, his mischievous grin peeping out once more. “He’s an example to us all.”

Bush shot him a freezing glare. “Thank you, Mr Devereaux. I suppose you will be glad to be reunited with your husband, ma’am?” he asked, determined to turn the conversation away from himself. “You must have been separated for some time.”

“Indeed, Mr Bush. My husband and I are most devoted – were it not for a dispute over papers with the French authorities I would never have been stranded in France. He would not have allowed me to stray from his side. Of course,” she added with a flirtatious smile, “then I would not have needed the assistance of Mr Devereaux and so would have missed making your acquaintance. That would have saddened me greatly.”

Bush coughed, embarrassed. Kennedy’s grin widened at the sight of his friend’s discomfiture. He bowed theatrically. “It has been an honour to be of service to you, my lady. I am sure I speak for both myself and Mr Bush when I say that. Do you not agree, William?”

Knowing that he was turning red again, Bush nodded and attempted to smile at the expectant Isobel. “Of course,” he managed. “I - ”

“Mon Dieu! They ‘ave sent an honour guard to welcome us!”

Cotard’s shout could not have come at a more opportune moment for Bush. Grateful to have been released from what was rapidly becoming a very awkward conversation, he hurried to the colonel’s side at the rail. The boat was approaching the dock, slipping easily between the ships at anchor. The familiar bustle on the quay almost hid the sight Cotard’s sharp eyes had spotted – lined up at attention were six marines and a sergeant, their scarlet coats bright in the late afternoon sun.

Kennedy had joined them, and exchanged a glance with Bush. “I don’t like the look of this,” he murmured.

“Why would the admiral send the marine guard? We need no protection here. Unless…”

“Precisely. The only reason they can be waiting there is to arrest someone.”

Bush blinked. “Do you think that someone could have betrayed you? Revealed who you really are?” he hissed. Cotard was watching them with undisguised curiosity.

All trace of levity was gone from Kennedy’s face. “It would certainly appear so.” He left the rail to speak with the captain, eyes darting constantly to the little scene on the quay.

“Sir, there’s something fishy going on,” said Styles, startling Bush. The big man had come up behind him without making a sound, Carlotta at his heels. “Why’ve they sent out the Lobsters?”

The crew of the boat were throwing out ropes to men on the quayside now, preparing to let their passengers ashore. As Bush watched, the sergeant of marines pointed in their direction, leading his men towards them at a swift pace. “I don’t know, Styles, but I doubt if they’re about to give us a heroes’ welcome.”

Kennedy was at the rail once more as the boat bumped against the dock. The captain was shouting orders to the hands. “I’ll go ahead,” Archie said quietly to Bush, “There’s no point in prevaricating if they’ve come for me.”

“Do you really think that’s wise? If they - ”

“If they take me, get word to Pellew. He’s the only one who can get me out of prison.”

“And if they come from Pellew?” Bush asked, catching Kennedy’s arm as he turned away. “What then?”

“Find Horatio,” was Archie’s reply, delivered over his shoulder as he shrugged off Bush’s hand and made his way to the entry port. He swung himself down, the marines reaching him as his feet touched the quay. The soldiers surrounded him in a loose semi-circle, their muskets held ready.

Bush found that he was holding his breath as Kennedy and the sergeant spoke, their voices too quiet for him to hear. After a moment, first Kennedy, then the sergeant looked up at him. Archie’s face was grave as his eyes met Bush’s. Ever so slightly, he shook his head.

The sergeant stepped closer to the boat. “Mr Bush?” he asked.

“Sir…” said Styles in a warning tone, about to put his hand on Bush’s arm before evidently thinking better of it.

“I would ask you to join us on the quay, sir,” the sergeant said respectfully, as though he were asking Bush to take a stroll, and did not have half a dozen armed men behind him.

Cotard looked at the guard, puzzled. “What is the meaning of this, Bush?”

Bush ignored him. He had seen danger many times, cheated death on more than one occasion, but none of those instances had left him with the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that made itself known now. Only once before had he felt that way – more than two years ago, on the deck of the Renown, when Sergeant Whiting had conducted himself, Kennedy and Hornblower to the brig on the captain’s orders. He knew what that sick feeling was – fear, anticipation, but above all, shame. Without replying to either Cotard or Styles, he followed Kennedy’s example, swinging himself over the side of the boat and trying not to wince as his weight fell heavily on his injured ankle.

The sergeant came to meet him. Bush drew himself up, determined to meet the man with some dignity. The marines left Kennedy, taking up a stance behind and to the side of Bush, one at either elbow. He could hear someone scrambling down from the boat behind him, probably Styles, but he didn’t turn to look. Instead he looked straight ahead, as the sergeant removed a paper from his pocket, a paper with an official seal.

“Lieutenant William Bush, I arrest you on the orders of Admiral Pellew,” the sergeant said, and Bush heard Styles shout something. Whatever it was, he couldn’t make out, as his full attention was taken by the sergeant’s next words, which hit him like a physical blow: “I arrest you on suspicion of spying for the enemy.” He nodded to his men, who took hold of Bush’s arms, holding him between them. “Take him away.”

TBC


	9. Part Nine

PART NINE

 

Styles watched in horror as Bush was led away by the marines.

“They can’t do that! Ain’t right…it ain’t _right_!”

“It is incredible,” Cotard muttered, shaking his head. “I would never ‘ave thought that Bush of all men would be a spy. He ‘as ‘ad us all fooled, it would seem.”

“No ‘e ain’t, sir,” Styles said defensively. The colonel raised an eyebrow. “Mr Bush ain’t no spy.”

“Of course he’s not, Styles,” said Kennedy, overhearing the conversation. He left Lady Isobel’s side and crossed over to them. A general murmuring still ran round the quayside, people still looking after the little group in red uniforms who marched their prisoner away towards the dockyard. “Someone has done this, incriminated Mr Bush – or at least made a suspect of him. There’s a plot – first the betrayal of the mission, and now this…it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“What do we do, sir?” Styles asked. Carlotta was still clinging to his arm, watching them all with big frightened eyes. He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“I want you to find the Hotspur – see if she’s still in port. Tell Mr Hornblower what has happened.”

“Aye aye, sir. And what’ll you be doing?”

“My best to unravel this mess,” Kennedy replied with a slight smile, though there was no humour in it. “You’d better go now, and quickly. Colonel, can I rely on you to see Lady Isobel to her husband’s residence?”

Cotard bowed elegantly. “You may count on me.”

“You are going?” Carlotta asked, looking up as Styles as the others moved away.

“I’m sorry, miss, I ‘ave to go. Got to do me duty. I can’t let them take Mr Bush like that, mebbe try to ‘ang ‘im for something ‘e didn’t do,” Styles said.

“Do you think that they would?”

Styles sighed, trying not to imagine what might happen. He’d seen enough so-called naval justice in his time. “Let’s just say that not all men are as fair as Mr Bush, miss. But you’ll be all right – you’ll be goin’ ‘ome now.”

“Home. Yes, I suppose I must call it home,” said Carlotta softly, her dark gaze dropping to the ground. Beyond her Styles could see Lady Isobel, talking with Kennedy and Cotard. For a moment she looked across at Styles and their eyes met – a tiny little smile touched her lips, a smile that turned Styles’s blood cold for a second before she turned away again. Styles was not a man to be easily frightened, but he was superstitious. Matthews would have laughed at him, but just for that brief moment Styles could have sworn he was looking at something devilish. Something…evil. Carlotta tugged at his sleeve. “Could I not go with you?” she asked hopefully.

She looked very appealing, almost childlike. He wouldn’t have called her particularly pretty, but she awakened something he would have described as a chivalrous instinct in Styles, had he known the name for it. Maybe it was because he had saved her life when the ship was sinking that she looked to him for protection, and he found himself wanting to provide it. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said again, “I can’t take yer on board ship. Mr Bush would ‘ave me guts for garters - ” He broke off, remembering where Bush was at that moment. “Anyhow, ain’t a good idea. Captain don’t like women on board.”

Carlotta nodded, but he could see her lip trembling. Styles chucked her under the chin, bringing her great brown eyes to his. “Hey,” he said, “’Ow about you tell me where ‘er ladyship’s ‘ouse is and I’ll come and see yer when I can?”

She smiled, and opened her mouth to reply, but Lady Isobel’s voice came out of it instead.

“Carlotta!”

The maid jumped. Her ladyship had come over to them without either of them noticing. Despite her still bedraggled appearance, there was an imperious tilt to her head that Styles couldn’t recall seeing before.

“Come, Carlotta,” she said sharply,” The colonel is waiting to conduct us home. I wish to waste no more time.” She turned and swept off down the quay. Carlotta had no choice but to follow.

Styles watched them heading for the gate, where a carriage, no doubt found by Kennedy, was waiting. Just before she followed her mistress inside, Carlotta turned and looked straight at Styles. The look was scared, and imploring, almost desperate. He took a step forward, but it was too late to catch them – the steps had been folded up and the coachman whipped up his horses.

As he turned to start on his own mission, Styles was nagged with doubt that he had done the right thing by letting her go.

 

***

 

“I had a reason for coming here,” Hobbs announced. He withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket. Hornblower knew immediately what it must be – and, guessing from the way her eyes lit up with curiosity, so did Anna.

“Another message from beyond the grave?” she asked.

The gunner shook his head. “It seems someone’s been following my movements. This was pushed under the door of my lodgings not half an hour ago.”

“They’re becoming bolder,” Hornblower observed, taking the paper and unfolding it, “to risk being seen in such a way.”

“I doubt if this person took the message themselves,” said Anna. To Hornblower’s annoyance, she was looking over his shoulder, anxious to see contents. He heard a sharp intake of breath from behind as he smoothed out the sheet – when he glanced down at it he realised why.

On the paper was a crude drawing of a gallows, and there was a body – dressed in a rough approximation of a naval officer’s uniform – hanging from the noose. Beneath it were printed the words:

THE QUIET MAN

“Oh, dear God,” said Anna.

“This is a warning,” Hornblower said without thinking. How could this person know of Pellew’s intentions? Were they watching constantly, did they know of what transpired during his meeting with the admiral earlier that day?

“Why should it be a warning?” Anna asked, pouncing on his thoughtless words. He cursed himself. “A threat, surely? It’s quite plain that William is to be the next target. And he will be utterly unaware of the fact - ”

“If they’ve been watching me, then they must be aware that Mr Bush is not with the Hotspur,” said Hobbs. “It’s a taunt – maybe they know where he is, and intend to get to him before any of us can warn him.”

“Mr Hornblower said it was a warning. A warning for him?” Anna turned to Hornblower. “Do you know something you are not telling us, Horatio?”

Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, even though was unsure what to say. Pellew had told him that Anna herself was under suspicion. To tell her –

He was about to speak when a thunderous knocking started up on the front door. Trying to hide his relief at the interruption, he listened to Maria heading down the hall – as she opened the door there were urgent voices, Maria’s cry of alarm as someone pushed past her and into house. After a moment the kitchen door flew open and a familiar figure stood there, rumpled and untidy, his face dirty and a blood-stained bandage wound round his head but immediately recognisable.

“Horatio!” Kennedy exclaimed, relief settling on his features. “I sent Styles to the Hotspur but they said you’d gone ashore - I thought I’d never find you.”

“Horry, do you know this man?” Maria asked, looking at Archie, plainly confused. “He forced his way in, and I didn’t know whether to - ”

“It’s all right, Mrs Hornblower, this man is an old friend of the captain’s,” said Hobbs before Hornblower could speak. The gunner was looking at the newcomer with undisguised interest. “Good day to you, Mr Kennedy. You’re looking very well for a man who should be six feet under.”

Kennedy in turn regarded Hobbs with incredulity. “The devil take it…you keep strange company these days, Horatio.”

“It’s a long story,” said Hornblower. He could see his wife still hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “It’s quite all right, Maria. Mr Hobbs is right – this man is indeed a friend. You may leave us – there is nothing to concern yourself about.”

Reluctantly, she went. Kennedy watched her, one eyebrow raised. “Not quite what I expected, Horatio,” he observed.

“This is no time for discussing my marriage, Archie. We have much to tell you. Hobbs brought us important news - ”

“As do I.” Kennedy looked gravely at them all. “William has been arrested in Pellew’s name.”

 

***

 

Bush lay on the rough bunk and stared at the ceiling.

It was uncomfortably warm in the cell, reminding him less than pleasantly of his recent incarceration in France. He tried to make sense of what had happened, but was making little headway. The sergeant of marines had not elaborated on his initial charge, and Bush had not asked. They simply took him to the prison, removed him of any possessions which were not permitted, entered his details in the register and locked him up here. The sound of the key in the lock had a terrible finality to it, just as it had in Kingston, when he had first heard it through a haze of pain and near delirium.

Prison. Again. Twice in less than two years. Until he had joined the Renown and become embroiled in the mutiny against poor, mad Captain Sawyer, Bush had never seen the inside of a prison cell. He had always done his duty and kept in line – an unimaginative man, perhaps, but hopefully a reliable and dependable one. Now, however, there was little chance of him ever progressing further in the service. After this, his career would be over. To be accused twice of wrongdoing in so short a space of time…

He knocked a fist against the wall, cursing himself for a fool once again. Though he knew of his own innocence, there was clearly evidence somewhere against him that had prompted Pellew to make the arrest. Bush could not think where such evidence might have come from, or who could have had such a grudge against him as to make allegations of so serious a nature. It was all quite incredible.

The key scraped in the lock, startling him. He had just sat up when the captain in charge entered the cell, taking off his hat as he ducked under the door frame.

“Mr Bush,” he said, and Bush climbed to his feet, irrationally expecting the worst. “I have had word from the admiral. He wishes to question you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Very well.” Bush glanced down at his stained and rumpled civilian clothes. “May I make one request?”

 

 

***

 

Anna stared at the sheet of paper, at the sketch of the gallows. Behind her she had been vaguely aware of Hornblower and Hobbs telling Kennedy about the mystery around the notes on Sawyer’s tomb, as he in turn told them what had transpired in France. Although relieved to know that Bush was alive and well, she paid them scant attention, putting pieces together in her own mind.

“They knew,” she said, finally lifting her eyes from the drawing. “They _knew_ that Pellew intended to arrest William! How could they know?”

“It’s clear that the person who betrayed the Hotspur’s mission is also behind this,” said Kennedy. “There is a traitor and a spy in the admiralty – how else could they have known about the intention to rescue of the Anstruthers?”

Hornblower was frowning. “Could your reports have been intercepted? They must have been watching Clive - ”

“Impossible. Even if they had got hold of the communications they could never have used the information.”

“You seem very sure of that, sir,” said Hobbs.

“I am. And I intend to see Pellew and tell him that William could not have been his precious spy,” Kennedy announced confidently.

“Pellew wouldn’t listen to Mr Hornblower when he told him of the plot – what makes you think he’ll take your word?”

“Because I have proof. The communications were written in a code devised by myself and derived from Greek. Even if William had had a classical education he wouldn’t have been able to decipher the code. Only Pellew and I can do that.” Archie looked pleased with himself. “I tried to see him earlier but he was unavailable. I’ll go there first thing tomorrow and tell him that he has to release William.”

“He won’t do it,” said Anna, making them all look at her in surprise.

“Why not, Miss Maitland?” Kennedy asked her. “The admiral can’t hold Mr Bush without proof of his guilt, and he won’t find any.”

She held up the paper, waving it at him. “Because of _this_! Whoever sent this message knew that Pellew intended to arrest William – if they are indeed the same person who betrayed the mission, then what is to stop them planting the evidence necessary to convict him?”

“There’s something else, too,” said Hornblower. He went to the sideboard and unlocked a drawer, taking out a small bundle of papers. Selecting one, he handed it to Kennedy, who took it and read the contents with a bemused frown. “They know that you cheated the noose in Kingston.”

“That information has always been a closely guarded secret – not even the men at the admiralty know about my work for Pellew,” Kennedy said without looking up from the paper. Anna guessed that it was the list of names – only one person could be referred to as THE DEAD MAN.

“You have been active in England recently, Archie. If these people have been watching us all, they will have seen you with us. They have so much information, it would not have taken them long to work out who you were.”

“And Mr Hobbs knew,” Anna pointed out. She looked at the gunner, who regarded her impassively. “You were not surprised to see Mr Kennedy when he arrived, were you, Mr Hobbs?”

“That’s true,” agreed Kennedy, putting the paper aside at last and turning his gaze on Hobbs. “How did you come to know I was alive? Pellew took every precaution.”

Hobbs folded his hands behind his back, evidently unconcerned by the three pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed on him. “The Renown was still in port at Kingston for a week after Mr Hornblower sailed on the Retribution. She was still being refitted, and waiting for her two new lieutenants. I had a little shore leave, spent some time in the taverns, and got talking to a sergeant of marines from the fort. It turned out that he’d been part of the burial duty for Mr Kennedy, and when he’d had a bit too much rum he started telling me about a curious thing that had struck him about the corpse.”

“Curious?” asked Anna. “In what way?”

“The body was too light, miss. Of course, it was all sealed up, and the sergeant wouldn’t have dared to cut it open just to check, but he said that it didn’t hang like a normal body when the men lifted it. It was almost as if the body wasn’t there.” Hobbs paused, and then continued, “He didn’t remember telling me the next day, but that information got me thinking. There was no one I could discuss it with, naturally – Buckland wouldn’t have believed me and I didn’t think I could tell Mr Bush, as he’d been in the prison with Mr Kennedy and seen him dying. He would have thought I was mad. So I just kept it with me, until nearly two years later when I saw that letter on my captain’s tomb.”

“You’re a clever man, Mr Hobbs,” said Kennedy.

“Thank you, sir.”

“If that marine told one person, he undoubtedly told others. Your survival is not such a secret as we thought, Archie,” said Hornblower. “Is our enemy someone who has been in Kingston, then?”

“It seems likely. But who would wish to avenge Sawyer in such a way? Did he have family?” Kennedy asked, looking at the list of names once more, as though it could tell him the answer.

“Only a daughter,” Hobbs replied, “but she died a few years ago. His wife passed away back in eighty-eight, I believe. There is no one else.”

There was a long pause. Then Kennedy said sharply, “There is _you_ , Hobbs. I notice that your name is not on this list. You were always devoted to the captain - to the extent of all else at times.”

Hobbs glared at Kennedy, showing emotion for the first time. His fists clenched reflexively at his sides. “Yes, I supported the captain, with good reason. Was I expected to abandon the man I’d served with all those years just because he was failing? He needed me more, not less, in that time, faced with mutiny and conspiracy in his own ship. You were all so full of your own importance, so self-righteous – what did any of you know of him? He was a great man, and he deserved more than he got from his officers.”

“Hobbs - ” Kennedy began, taking a step towards the gunner, his face flushing with anger.

Hornblower caught his arm, holding him back. He shook his head gently. “Not now, Archie.” Turning to Hobbs, he added, “Yes, Captain Sawyer did not get that which a man of his abilities and standing should have received. We were all caught in a most impossible situation, and we all tried to do what we believed was right. Whether we made the right decision does not matter now – what’s done is done. Fighting amongst ourselves when we are facing an unknown enemy is not the answer.”

“How do we know that our enemy is not standing before us now?” demanded Kennedy, thrusting out an arm to point damningly at Hobbs. “How do we know it’s not he who condemned Buckland, Clive and the Anstruthers to death, and who has had Bush imprisoned? He has the motive!”

Hobbs threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Have your experiences taught you nothing, Mr Kennedy? Do you really think that if I wanted to kill you all I’d be standing here telling you about it? I’d have come upon you and struck in the dark without word or warning, believe me. And don’t think it didn’t cross my mind more than once.”

“I know that _I_ am grateful to you for drawing this horrible plot to our attention,” said Anna, glancing at Hornblower and Kennedy. The latter fixed Hobbs with a dangerous glare, his lower lip jutted petulantly. “But now we have to decide what to do next. We cannot allow William to languish in prison for something he could never have done!”

As if in answer to some kind of cue, there was another knock at the door. This time Hornblower went to answer it himself. When he returned a moment later it was with a letter in his hand and a frown on his face. He stood in the doorway for some moments, looking at the single sheet of paper.

Kennedy glanced at him curiously. “Horatio? Is something wrong?”

“This is from the prison. William is to be questioned tomorrow and requests his uniform,” said Hornblower without looking up.

“The letter is from William? Is he all right?” asked Anna eagerly. If she could not see him, then a glimpse of his familiar writing would be enough for the moment.

Hornblower shook his head. “It is from the captain in charge of the prison, written on William’s behalf. He will not be allowed to communicate with us directly, in case he should try and persuade us to help him, or we should try and influence what he might say when questioned. It’s the way these things usually work.”

“You obviously speak from experience.” She narrowed her eyes, recalling his words earlier. “You did not seem all that surprised when he told us that William had been arrested. And you said that the message with the hanged man was a warning…did you know that Pellew would do this?”

Kennedy blinked, looking at his friend. “Did you, Horatio?”

***

Hornblower shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably under their scrutiny. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back, much as he would have done on his own quarterdeck.

“Yes,” he admitted, “the admiral told me this morning.” Anna opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, stalling her, “Listen to me, Miss Maitland. Pellew told me that the admiralty had ordered it. I don’t believe that he thinks William is guilty, but he must do as his masters command.”

“Then why did you not - ” she began, but again he interrupted.

“Tell me what I could have done, please. I had barely three hours between the admiral telling me of his intentions and William being arrested. In that time I had no idea where he was or that he would be so swiftly returning to England. How could I have warned him of what was to happen? And if I had managed to warn him, what then? They would have treated him more harshly had he tried to escape them, not that William would ever have agreed to do so.”

“He’s right, Anna,” said Kennedy. “William would have stood and let them take him, just as he did earlier. He knows as well as we do that there would have been little point in running from them. Trying to run would have just given them proof of his guilt.”

Anna looked at them both, her lips still parted as though about to say something. Her eyes flashed angrily, and she seemed to be struggling with an imminent outburst. After a moment or two, however, she seemed to come to a decision. She raised her chin defiantly, and nodded. “So what do we do now?” she asked, remarkably calmly.

“I will see Pellew tomorrow, hopefully before he has time to question William. There is little we can do in the meantime,” Kennedy said, and added with a smile, “There is also nothing our mysterious enemy can do. There can be no conviction without a trial, and no trial without evidence. No one will be able to penetrate the prison walls to reach him – under the circumstances, Bush is actually in the safest place he could be.”

“If that thought is supposed to comfort me, Mr Kennedy, you have failed in your intentions,” Anna told him. “Will it be possible to see William?”

“I doubt it,” said Hornblower. “It appears that letters are forbidden him – one must assume that the same will be true of visits.”

“Not necessarily, Horatio.” Kennedy was looking like that cat that had got the cream again. It was irritating.

“Are you proposing to break into the prison, Archie? I fancy that will be just a little beyond your abilities. Unless of course you have become a magician since we last met.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Mr Hornblower. I do not need magic, however, when I have a rather useful piece of paper.” He produced it from a leather wallet hidden in the breast pocket of his coat and held it out with a flourish.

Hornblower took it, reading the few lines in familiar handwriting:

_I, Edward Pellew, give the bearer of this order, Francis Devereaux, express authority to take whatever steps may be necessary to fulfil his instructions. He is to be given no hindrance and to receive cooperation in all matters._

Signed Ed Pellew (Bt)

“Better than a picklock, don’t you agree, Horatio?” Kennedy asked with a grin.

 

TBC


End file.
